In the Nile's Emerald Depths
by Morbid DramaQueen10
Summary: In his twelfth year as High Priest, Imhotep developed an unadvised attraction to the Pharaoh's favourite concubine. It did not, needless to say, end well for him, nor the concubine. But what of his life before the dangerous Anck-su-Namun? Imhotep/OC.
1. Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER: The Mummy certainly isn't mine. However, all characters outside of the movie/books/video games certainly are. **

**This is the product of my extreme frustration of a lack of finished, quality stories on Imhotep. I'm sure there are some, but my searches have yielded little. This won't necessarily be of quality-I'm not going to boast that much-but I will do my best. The subject matter isn't the most popular on . Either way, I'm off of my HP/OUaT kick. I need something else to get the creative juices flowing. **

**The original series TV show is not a part of the canon of this story. In my world, Imhotep was not resurrected a third time by a fellow with peculiar glasses. **

**The Egypt-centric part takes place about 5-7 years prior to Imhotep's mummification. I did a crapton of research. Somethings, however, are very fill-in-the-blanks. **

**-XXX-**

In his twelfth year as High Priest, Imhotep developed an unadvised attraction to the Pharaoh's favourite concubine. It did not, needless to say, end well for him, nor the concubine. It was the typical punishment-save for the curse. The mistresses died at her own hand, a dagger to her heart. But her love was later apprehended, and paid for his crimes. Tongue removed, his men mummified, the High Priest was cursed with a _Hom Dai _of eternal life and suffering.

Or, at least, what the Medjai assumed to be eternal life and suffering. They did not predict three thousand years later a librarian might foolishly release him and his curse upon the world, thus temporarily ending his suffering. Or that, several years following that incident, he would be resurrected once again in the middle of London. One cannot simply account for resurrections, however, and the Medjai consoled themselves in the afterlife that things of this nature were unpredictable and muddy at best.

But, when it happened a third time, the Medjai had to shake their heads. Clearly the High Priest wasn't meant to be contained. Thrice he'd been released from the bindings of his curse, and by a woman each time! The foolish Evy, knaving Meela, and then, quite suddenly, the young Leora.

She was not particularly notable—an Egyptologist for an uncle, opera singer of a mother, of Greecian descent. At eighteen, 1936, she had been shipped to Alexandria, unwillingly, as part of her mother's research for a London production of _Aida_. Uncle Horace had been quite obliging in allowing the women full run of his Alexandria home-not as those it was too much of an imposition, as it was rare Horace was ever home. The weeks passed, and Leora soon found herself alone in her uncle's house. Mother had all too readily rushed to London to oversee production details. Leaving her daughter on her own in a foreign city with an unknown relative.

It was a veritable recipe for disaster.

Had anyone thought to forsee the third resurrection, they wouldn'tve looked to Leora Rainier as the one to read the text, go through the motions. Horace, perhaps, but not the girl. Not at all.

It was quite an accident, too. She knew little Egyptian-only bits and pieces she's picked up from Horace's work, nothing from _Aida_. Leora was, indeed, quite an unlikely candidate for the mistake. And yet…someone had to have stumbled upon the book. Someone must've read the proper words, pronounced the exact verbs, pulled some power from the great beyond and held it long enough to resurrect a three-thousand-some-odd-year-old priest. If one looked beyond the surface, it made quite a bit of sense.

The Rainiers were a French lot who'd come over several decades prior to the Napoleonic Wars. The most recent Rainier, Barnabas Rainier, had married a very pretty Greek girl, Olena, sister to Horace, and a wonderful soprano. The result of the passionate union was Leora, who had inherited a Grecian name and little else from her Mediterranean heritage. Olena was a primarily English person who had divorced her Greek roots early in her immigration to the Islands. She came from a long line of social climbers. Her mother's mother's mother had been something of a minor princess, but the family had only fallen from there. Many mothers back, however, into the third century B.C., there was a not-so-minor merchant's daughter, a member of court and friend to the Princess Nefertiri, daughter of Seti I.

Masika Oni-Rehema. The compassionate one, born in rain. Her mother's idea. A Greek and an Egyptian. Not unheard of, but she was still an exotic creature to the court.

So, it was easy to conceive how Leora might've been tangled up in the business of resurrecting a treacherous priest. Especially considering that priest was something like a lover to Leora's many-great grandmother.

Masika Oni-Rehema. Daughter of Osi, the Greek merchant. Member of Seti's court. Friend to the Princess Nefertiri. And lover to the High Priest Imhotep.

-XXX-

She wasn't supposed to be anyone special. As her father said, being a foreigner in a land with such a monarchy meant that you kept your head down, your voice low, and did everything possible to avoid unnecessary attention. Masika heeded these words as best she could-but subtlety wasn't something one could possess when being the Princess Nefertiri's best friend. Nefertiri was, in general, a mild person who took moderation to heart. It was those of the court who insisted on the fan fare and escorts. Masika took the attention as best she could.

Friendships are not always easy, and a relationship with the princess was anything but. Still, the merchant's daughter took it in stride; she was a compassionate girl, saw the princess's struggle with her lot in life, then took it upon herself to ease the burden of royalty. Her father was cautious, at first, but managed to take on the perspective that ties to the Pharaoh's family could be nothing but positive. Therefore, Masika accepted her place with all the grace and ease of one of noble blood. It was not particularly difficult with Osi's blessing in hand.

That is, until the High Priest began staring across the Great Hall.

His fixation began rather casually. A glance, on occasion. Nothing more. Then, the imposing man began to lock eyes with the merchant's daughter for longer periods of time, as though trying to decode her thoughts, or send a message solely through eye contact.

These gazes were unsettling. When they occurred, Masika sought to find any excuse to exit the room, fearful of Imhotep's dark eyes and the brooding set to his heavy mouth. She wanted nothing to do with the man.

Unfortunately Imhotep certainly wanted to associate with Masika. He even went so far as to make personal calls upon her home.

**-XXX-**

The pounding echoed through Masika's skull like an unskilled drummer unleashing his lack of talent upon an unwilling audience. It was evening, late, and she hadn't the slightest clue who would be calling upon the house.

There he stood, legs apart, intense eyes glinting in the oil's light. Clad in a bloody burgundy _shendyt _and open black tunic, Seti's High Priest was silent, appraising his hostess as she waited, open-mouthed, on the top step. He brought no one, save for himself, and it appeared he walked, as she saw no chariot. Then again, the temple was not so far away…Masika shook her head slowly, blinking.

"My lord, ah, please, you grace our home," she gestured, and he followed her indoors, saying nothing. Masika tried again.

"My father is currently meeting with a client. Is there anything…is there anything I might get you? Will you wait, sir, or might I tell him you came to see-"

"Suten-Ra has died," he said bluntly.

"Oh…my…"

Suten-Ra was honorary wife to the god Ra. She was picked for the position at a young age, and trained for years under the old wife. Suten assumed the role only a few years ago, but had only recently succumb to a sickness none of the physician could cure. She lived in the temple, with the priests and a lesser wives of the god. Her death was something of a tragedy.

"I am so sorry," Masika murmured. "That is a pity. She was a good woman."

"Excellent in her devotion," Imhotep agreed. "I come tonight to request a favour of your faith. With Suten passed, and several of our wives also taken by Suten's disease, we are short hands in the honoring of the god. We need, for the time being, a few young women to take up the prayer."

Masika blinked. "Oh. There a few ladies in the court-"

Gently (she did not know he could be gentle), the High Priest stopped her. "No, Rehama, it is not they that I seek. I ask that you temporarily take up a marriage to the god."

She knew not what to say. To refuse would offend the priests, something her family could not afford. It was a true honor to be selected, even temporarily, to be Ra's bride. But to live in the temple, to abandon her princess was unthinkable. Masika began to ask of the duties when Imhotep reassured her, "We would only require you for the morning and evening prayer. You would offer tribute, prayer, and devotion to the idol. Nothing more would be required. You may stay here, with your father, as you are so near the temple."

The night-coloured eyes bore into hers. Without quite knowing what she doing, Masika found herself nodding. An expression of relief (again, an unknown to her) passed over Imhotep's features.

"You honor us, Rehama."

"Masika," she corrected, still dazed.

He considered. "I prefer Rehama. You embody compassion."

With that, he departed. Masika was left entirely embarrassed and horrified with what she'd agreed to do for the gods knew how long.

The next morning, before the sun had awaken and dressed in a clean blue shift, Masika walked to the temple, rushing up the expanse of stairs, across the reflective floor for the room of ceremonies where the idol sat on a pedestal. She was, of course, stopped before she could even properly enter the room. Nebit, the handmaiden to the wives, took one sweeping look over Masika's attire, shook her head, and lead the young woman to a small vestibule, where she was stripped down to nudeness. Her hair combs were removed, and the dark waves were combed viciously till they shone even in the dim light of morn. Then she was given a new cotton shift-one that was extremely thin. It left nothing to imagination.

To her severe embarrassment, the High Priest awaited them. Masika was absolutely mortified-or she might've been, but there simply wasn't time. Food must be offered, prayers given, and glories paid. The entire process took a little over an hour. Imhotep oversaw the ceremony, his face impassive as Masika stumbled through the many lines of text.

Afterwards, the High Priest insisted on walking her home. Again, he waited as she dressed again in the blue shift. He complimented her on the colour as they exited the building. Masika mumbled a thanks, still bashful following her exhibition in the temple.

"I thank you, Rehama," Imhotep began halfway between the temple and her home. The city was starting to wake, the bustle of bakeries, shops, and stands taking life. "You have done well. Your devotion is admirable."

She bowed her head. There was a pause.

"You were…apprehensive?" he offered.

"Very," she said softly, staring straight ahead. Out of the corner of her eye, she could have sworn the High Priest winced.

"You did well," he repeated seriously. "though you were as quiet as a mouse. A…_Panya."_

Mouse. He called her a mouse. Masika bit her lip.

"I am sorry if I displeased you. I will try harder next time, my lord."

His brow furrowed. "No, no. I do not mean to say you in anyway failed. It was…it was merely an observation. Besides, what is there wrong with a mouse? Even mice can be brave. With time. And encouragement."

They had reached her home, and Imhotep halted.

"You are a _Panya," _he murmured. Masika was surprised with how close he'd gotten without her realizing it. She could stare deeply into his dark orbs, even make out flecks of gold near the center of the iris. "A beautiful, young _Panya. _And there is nothing wrong with being a _Panya. _Know that you were chosen for a reason."

She knew this. But she simply didn't understand the reason.

-XXX-

Please review!

**Masika Oni Rehema—Born in rain, wanted, compassionate**

**Panya—Mouse**

**Zahera—flower**

**Suten-Ra—Royal Sun**


	2. Chapter 2

**No beta, and I wrote this ages ago, so sorry for all mistakes-there will be a few at least, I'm sure.**

**DISCLAIMER: The Mummy isn't mine, etc.**

**Enjoy. **

**Oh, and one last note, there isn't a ton of info in regards to religious ceremonies in old Egypt, so a lot of this is just me filling in blanks. I was raised Catholic, so elements of that lended themselves to me.**

**-XXX-**

Weeks passed. Masika became reasonable adept as performing the rites, the prayers, singing the traditional glories. Anointing herself with the spicy oil was still a little off, and she was always mixing up the motions. Imhotep never missed a single ceremony. He was always there, standing back in the shadows, watching her every motion with keen eyes. Sometimes he reminded her of a predator- - - a falcon, perhaps, or a leopard. She never knew what to say, or do, to avoid his gaze. She made it quite clear with sublet gestures that he made her uncomfortable. Even still, his eyes sought hers from across the room in court. Nefertiri said it was not a bad thing-the priest was single in his life, and a marriage would be most advantageous. Masika knew her father wished her to marry a Greek, but she said nothing about that matter to the Princess, knowing she could not understand.

Some nights, when she caught his eyes on her, she could practically hear in her mind the name he now called her habitually. _Panya. _Mouse. My little mouse. _Panya. _

It was one of these nights that he approached her. She had escaped to the reflecting pool in the Pharaoh's gardens, tired of music and wine. The pool was uninhabited for the evening; most would rather drink or dance than observe the graceful simplicity of the peaceful water. Slipping away was easy enough-it was not as though anyone was counting on her. The teenaged princess was occupied with her suitors, Masika's father was talking business with a few nobles. She was certain to not be missed.

The pool's calm setting called to her. A curious ripple was echoing through the water. Masika did not mind to investigate, however, the current did bring a rise of curiosity in her.

Sitting down on the clay-coloured stones that lined the water, she noticed a small, dark grey thing struggling in the water. A mouse, straining to tread water. A very little mouse. Masika rushed to reach it, leaning far, far over to scoop the small creature up to safety. It quivered between her palms. She lifted her hem for a section of dry fabric, and dried the mouse as best she could. The small grey thing wriggled, frightened even in the hands of its savior. Masika cooed softly to promise the rodent protection. She would take it far from the pool, nearer the stables. He would gorge himself on grain, without risking death by the palace cook's brutal hand. Besides, she knew a few of Seti's stallions had a particular fondness for mice.

For the moment, though, Masika sat on the stone edge of the pool, stroking the shivering creature with one finger, tenderly murmuring old Grecian songs she'd learnt from her father. With the mouse out, the pool was again a smooth piece of silver. She admired it, watching the reflections. Pinpricks of stars, black silhouettes of swaying trees, the pearly crescent of the moon, wrapped in night, the figure on the opposite shore-

"_What?"_

Masika blink. She had no time to be afraid, so mere confusion swept over her.

The person kneeled at that water's edge. She could see dark shadows for eyes practically consuming the visage. Glinting 'round the neck a metal of pure sunlight. He shifted, and the white of his _shendyt _rustled, the gold of his belt also sparkling. Masika felt her throat close as the figure bent further, as though in worship, to touch the water's glassy surface with a single figure.

The resulting ripple resounded throughout the pool. With each wave there was a sparkle of silver, spark-like. Masika clutched the swimming mouse to her, gasping. Whatever magic this was it was big, like nothing she'd seen before. Few could perform such a spell-a spell for what cause? Masika was afraid to find out. As the waves approached her side of the pool, she scrambled backwards and up the steps, back to the pavilion, to light, all too ready to leave.

She had eyes only for those steps, being very careful not to trip. But it was a useless attempt. At the very top of the stairway stoop the figure. The sorcerer. The man.

Masika could see now. _"Imhotep."_

His features were relatively impassive, mouth set, but his gaze was unlike anything she had seen before. Solid and dark and so warm. Masika quivered in place, as frightened as her mouse. She'd heard of circumstances of this nature, when a man approached a young woman, appealing to her with soft words, seeking divine pleasures of flesh. And she knew what could happen if a certain types of men were refused. It had happened to one of Nefertiri's maidens only last year. The girl was something of a spirit. But the encounter left her so utterly disgraced as to throw herself into the Nile for shame. Nefertiri was furious. The man received no punishment. But such was the court of Seti.

She would do it. Comply. It was a cowardly. Dishonorable. But Masika never claimed any nobility. Only a want of life.

He was the High Priest. If she were to refuse him, he could very well rain hell upon her and her family. Her honor could be placed under question, her position in Seti's court vanish, association with Princess Nefertiri disappear. Aside from that, who knew what magics he possessed?

The Pharaoh's High Priest was never one of the men she's have thought to "indulge" in such activities. But all of those stares…she should have seen this coming. Foolish of her, to not predict.

Slowly, Masika backed down the stairs. Mouse clutched to her breast, she was entirely silent. The High Priest descended after, but made no uncouth advances. Desperately avoiding his eyes, Masika opened her palms, looking at the damp mouse.

"_Panya," _Imhotep said suddenly. It startled her; whether the address was to her or the animal she couldn't tell. Didn't know if she wanted to know. He scared her.

Again, the imposing man spoke. "_Panya. _ I have observed from afar so long…" a hand rose, then halted midway in the air. Masika waited. He continued. "When you became bride to our temple, I knew I was blessed, but I could not…You do me honor, Rehama."

With each word came another step. He was inches from her now. Masika could not move, could not breath, nor speak.

This time, his hand met her flesh, and Masika nearly fainted away, leaning inadvertently into the limb. The pad of one thumb stroked her cheekbone. These were not words to prologue an assault. Had he come again to thank her for her work at the temple? Where was this going?

"I have waited, but," he breathed. She wouldn't have thought high priests could ever be nervous. "It has been too much. Too long. I declare myself to you, Masika Oni-Rehama. By the gods that witness my love, I swear that I worship you more than any stars or moons or suns."

Masika stared. Her chest was utterly frozen. The sound of his breathing filled her ears. Out of all the things the High Priests could have said, this had not been something she considered. How could Imhotep want _anything _to do with her? A high priest and sorcerer declaring his heart to a foreigner?

"You do not need to respond." His hand was still upon her cheek. "Just…know of my feelings. Know that I shall desire you all of my days."

Oh, how she felt like a mouse. Utterly wretched. Weak and meek and so, so uncertain_." What to say_?" But he spared her with a plea.

"Do not fear me."

"My lord," Masika finally began, voice low. "I am so, so honored. But you cannot- - -you are mistaken. I am no one to fall in with."

Surprised, he laughed aloud. "No," he assured her. "Rehama, your compassion fills me. Your kindness and heart… I want nothing from you, please understand. For so long, I have desired to tell you. I am sorry-"

She bit her lip. "Please, my lord you are too kind. Do not apologize. You have done nothing to give offense."

"What might I do to assure you of my love? To what gods might I appeal for your affection?"

Compelled by pity and compassion, Masika took his open hand with her free one. The High Priest closed his eyes with their contact, sighing slightly. Masika's heart clenched. He was young- - -no more than five years older than she, perhaps three-and-thirty years. His position had given him a great burden of age, however. She felt his distance- - - he was not a man to be close to anyone. For him to speak to her in such a manner must surely have been a great pain.

Wanting to easy him to comfort, she spoke. "I know not what you may do, only that I do not understand how it is you love me. I am no one."

"You are a kind person. A vision," he told her, eyes still closed."Could you find any regard for me, Masika Oni-Rehama?"

"Oh, yes," the merchant's daughter replied. "Much. But of love, I do not know."

When his dark eyes flickered open, Masika saw only a flicker of disappointment. Then, calm.

"I can teach you of love."

She nearly laughed. "Love, something to teach?"

For the first time in her presence, he smiled.

**-XXX-**

He escorted her to the stables to release the mouse. According to Imhotep, he'd actually placed the mouse in the water himself, hoping Masika might come to the creature's rescue so that he might approach her. It stunned her, but she said nothing. He'd been clever. She secretly had to admire his determination.

They released the mouse. Then, silent, they walked back to the pavilion. Once within the halo of light surrounding the palace, Imhotep stopped, taking up Masika's wrist delicately.

"I do not wish to offend. But if your feelings differ from mine…if you do not wish to try, then please say now."

Masika stared upward, absorbing his words. "I do not know, my lord, if I can say my exact feelings. But, I am willing to find them, if that's what it will take."

Satisfied, Imhotep smiled again. Masika smiled back, slow, sweetly, hoping that their entire encounter wasn't a mistake.


	3. Chapter 3

**I've had comments on the wordiness of chapters...all I can say is I wrote this about a month ago, and have since moved on to other projects, so revisions might be while coming. If ever. I'm not really one who revisits their work unless it's something really popular and/or needs to be reworked. **

**-XXX-**

Her duties at the temple continued, along with her participation in court with Nefertiri. Imhotep kept his distance, for the most part, though his eyes followed her whenever they shared a room. In the morning and evening ceremonies he loomed over her praises. Afterwards, he would walk her home, or to the palace where they were both expected for various functions. Once there, Imhotep might steal her away for a few moments. In these minutes, he murmured such sweet things to her, so gently caressed her face, shared humorous insights. Masika was shy at first, accepting the touching and words, but keeping her eyes lowered, rarely responding beyond a word or a small nod, or laugh. Every encounter made her nervous. Yet as the weeks passed, she found herself looking forward to these tucked-away seconds, longing for his thoughts. As they walked through the crowded streets, she would watch his face in an attempt to decode the twitches, small smirks, and crinkled around his eyes.

After many of the late-night palace events (there was almost always something going on—a banquet, or feast, visit from an ambassador, some seasonal celebration, entertainment, etc.), they would meet beside the reflecting pool-on the opposite end from the pavilion, out of the way of prying eyes. Masika was not sure what would happen if anyone found them out. Her father had already begun to look over the meager selection of prosperous Greeks in the city. He wanted her to marry a Greek. But a union with the Pharaoh's High Priest would be far more favourable, surely, than to any merchant.

Still…their sneaking around was dangerous. Yet Masika wasn't willing to give it up yet.

At the reflecting pool they would talk. Imhotep was eager to hear her thoughts, understand her perspective. He made her feel so young, so naïve. All of her observations on marriage amused him. Her thoughts on the royal family he solidly agreed with, but they differed on their opinions of the economy. He found that she quiet liked the idea of travel, wanted dearly to see her father's homeland, and did not like the taste of wine. He was wary of distant travel, did not like most Greeks as a rule, agreed with her on the principle of wine.

She did her best to be open. Secrets would not due. Though they were growing close, she was constantly reminded of his power and influence. Whether it was the gold-skinned priests that followed him about the temple, or his constant post beside the Pharaoh, she was forced to remember his position. Then there was the magic-

"I am still learning," he explained during one of their visits by the pool. "There is a great deal I do not understand, and as my mentor left is before I was—before my tutelage was complete."

It was common knowledge around the city that Imhotep's mentor, the previous high priest Atem-Re, died prior to being able to fully pass on his knowledge to the young Imhotep. According to the tradition Imhotep was supposed to spend ten or more years learning from Atem-Re. He'd barely had seven. But there was no one else to assume the role. Imhotep ascending the position under Seti's insistence. He had done a fair job, exceeding the low expectations of all of those around him.

Magics were one of the last things taught, as it was a complex art. Imhotep was adept enough. But he still had much to learn, many spells to perfect.

"What is the biggest spell you could do?"

He considered. "Raise the dead. Resurrection. Very possible. Merely…difficult."

Masika wrinkled her nose. "What circumstances would call for such a curse? Once at peace, would not one wish to stay at peace?"

Imhotep shook his head. "It is just something to know. It had not been used, much, if my readings are correct. It would take severe emotional turmoil for anyone to even attempt such a spell. The sheer power and concentration and amount of emotion required could kill a person."

"When might you use it?"

"At the loss of a great love," he said, without missing a beat. "Heartbreak."

Masika allowed her eyes to slip away from him. The message was clear enough.

Some nights, she wouldn't attend court at all, but would stay beside the pool, or in his apartments in the palace all of the night. They did nothing but talk and eat and debate. Shy as she was, Masika did not shy away from any arguments, not when she had a purpose. Her fierce nature in these debates amused him. She would have delighted in smacking the smirk off of his priestly face.

"Do not tease me!" she shrieked after a particularly long argument over the set up of the stars and sun. "I have eyes, oh-voice-to-the-gods. I can see night. And day."

"I find it quite hard to believe you'd see any daylight had you the option," he said wryly. "As you seem to avoid it as much as possible. Tell me, has there been a day when you've not been late for dawn ceremonies?"

There honestly wasn't.

Imhotep did not tell her again of his love. His actions spoke enough. She was not willing to confess any warm feelings-no, she enjoyed their teasing friendship far too much. For that is what they had cautiously developed; a smooth friendship. She found that it was quite nice, indeed, something she would very much like to continue.

For at time, he seemed to agree.

Then, slowly but surely, Masika began to take note of lingering touches. When they spoke, he stood closer, loomed near enough so that they brushed one another. His words drawn out to increase his caresses. The way he said things, how he leaned in on particular words was, the occasional slip of "my love," all indicated his increased attachment. Nervously flattered, she decided to see how far she could stretch his patience. In lieu of their standard teases, Masika began what Nefertiri would call "_coquetry_."

"You are not so magnificent," she told him on evening after they had retired from the display of Nubian dancers in the Great Hall below, stretching out against the comfortable pillows he'd provided as seating. The High Priest sat parallel to her, eyebrows raised. They lazed so casually here. "As you might like to believe."

"Oh? I am not?"

"No, else you would have kissed me by now." Masika rolled over, staring up at the ceiling. She was not usually one to be so coy. It was an experience, to be sure.

He took the bait, but with a sort of wary and amused manner. "I surely was not informed of this. My apologies," the High Priest murmured.

Since arriving, he had removed the heavy gold-and-onyx collar and his open black tunic. Gold lined his eyes, setting off the amber sparks contained deep inside. Masika shifted to sit, leaning in close. Imhotep didn't respond, letting her examine him in quiet. He looked her over in turn. Dark waves of hair, wide blue-green eyes, an olive complexion similar to that of any Egyptians, merely a little more matte, and a shad or two paler. A delicate, Greek brow. Nimble fingers. A simple green dress, carefully pinned shawl. Her hair free from bindings, save for several slim braids, intertwined with glass and stone beads.

Not a princess, by any means, but she was something of a muted beauty. No amount of gold could improve her appearance-not that this revelation was going to prevent him from showering her with precious metals, gems, oils-which suited him perfectly fine. Simple. Just what the High Priest needed.

After several moments Masika sat up sharply, demanding, "Are you going to, or not?"

"Oh, I was not aware you wished…"A fabrication. Besides, his eyes had been trained on her lips for at least the last half hour. Without further hindering, the High Priest leaned in to softly press his lips to Masika's. She trembled beneath his lips, but her arms sought to wind themselves around his neck. Soon, they lay together, stretched across the pillow, breathless. He pulled away when the motion of her lips became heated. It would be all too easy to take her. Yet to bind her in such a manner would be taken as a serious offense at best. Though, he knew there was little she or her father might do about it, his internal shame might surely consume him. He would wait.

**-XXX-**

She had never been courted before, so the standards and practices were beyond her knowing. Imhotep, for his part, seemed to behave in a noble sort of manner, polite and kind and generally lovely. If this was what the courting process was, Masika was pleased enough with it. Her nerves eventually died down. Slowly, she began to seek him out. On the few days he missed her morning prayers for business with the Pharaoh, she would come later in the day, quietly inquiring after his absence.

The golden-skinned men that attended to the temple appeared to know of circumstances. They were discreet, but smiled at her every time she entered the temple-house, a few softly greeting her each morn, several offering to find the High Priest, or a small gift of sweetmeats. One, Faar-Nejete, produced a glistening white flower to her every so often, held back from the weekly deliveries to the temple. She felt their warmth. Wondering what lead to their kindness, she asked Imhotep.

"They are good men, yes, but they're especially nice to me. Is that usual?"

He rubbed his chin, musing. "Their loyalty runs deep. Many of them would likely die for me, if I asked it of them. Thus, they wish dearly to like you."

"Oh." She looked out the window, observing one small fellow sweeping the courtyard below. "And…do they?"

"Ah," the High Priest murmured, smiling slightly. "I should think so."

Their meetings began to leave her feeling exhilarated and glowing, rather than slightly shameful. Masika was still cautious, however-naturally, besides, their secretive encounters could cause some rather large waves if they were found out. She was not entirely sure of Imhotep's intentions-be they marriage, or simply a relationship outside of his temple and the Pharaoh's palace. After a while, Masika stopped caring, stopped trying to figure out his motivations. She was not a person to love, not by any means. A meek, cowardly child. Someone who'd hoped for a quite life in a distant marriage.

But he wasn't going to let her be that person. In Imhotep's presence, Masika wasn't just Nefertiri's shadow. A silent Greek. Daughter of Osi. She was Masika Oni-Rehama, his _Panya. _His mouse.

She did not mind, much, anymore. Mice were nice enough creatures.

**-XXX-**

**Up to chapter 6 now…I think we'll be over in 10. I don't want this to be too long. **

**Please review! **


	4. Chapter 4

As their time together increased, they became daring. Her father became convinced that she ought to further serve Ra by preparing the temple. Nearly every night, rolls of papayrus were found on their windowsill, left by a gold-skinned priest. He kissed her by the reflecting pool, in a tucked-away ally near the market place, and especially after morning prayer. In lieu of the god Ra, the High Priest began to accept Masika's affection. Every day, following the incense and prayer, he spirited his _Panya _to his dressing room, the small chamber housing his ceremonial collars, tunics, cloaks, and variety of symbolic tools. They slipped in, Imhotep placing open-mouthed kisses along her collarbone to her jawline, fingers trailing behind. But their time was brief. Masika could only spare a few minutes before she was expected home.

Her father remained in blissful ignorance. He did not even slightly suspect the High Priest's intentions; how could anyone? Imhotep was a good man, friend and advisor to the Pharaoh. Any relations with a near-foreigner was unthinkable. The merchant might not have minded, but Masika and Imhotep agreed to remain until absolutely necessary. Masika did not wish to speculate what sort of circumstances might merit their reveal.

Nefertiri was the only one had any idea. Masika's disappearance led to a curiosity. She quickly concluded it to be the priest—prior to Masika's position in the temple, they often discussed Imhotep's fixation, his ever-intense watching of the merchant's daughter. As of late, Nefertiri had seen that those looks were not so one-sided. Knowing glances were being exchanged. More than once, after a particularly entertaining bit of dancing or show work, in her good humor, Masika visibly sought out Imhotep, smiling to share the laugh.

While Nefertiri saw this, she said nothing. It did not concern her in the least.; Imhotep was no favourite of hers, but he was, in her mind, harmless. So, the princess observed without comment. She did not except the attachment to last.

For his part, Imhotep saw Nefertiri's silent acknowledgement. He did not share this with Masika, however.

They had bigger problems. Lately, Masika's father had been entertaining the thought of her marriage to another merchant. Adolphus. Ten years her senior, who owned many fine ships. He had a family in Greece. A modest amount of wealth. Good reputations. Masika liked him well enough. He was a little cold, but kind and loyal. They dined several times before her father formally accepted the courtship. He took to walking her to evening prayers at the temple. Imhotep was quick to bar Adolphus from the room, however, and retained his monopoly on walking Masika home. Adolphus appeared to not mind, taking the insistence of the charoping as the mark of a dedicated priest.

"Wonderous that a man so busy should take time every day for you," he said jovially as they waded through miles of people to watch the Princess and her father's newest concubine spar. Anck-su-namun was a new arrival to court, the daughter of a southern governor. Almost painfully beautiful, she was scarcely older than Nefertiri. As their first meeting, everyone was eager to watch. The princess had fire-what would the concubine bring?

"Yes," Masika agreed faintly. "He is very devout. No one can argue that."

From their newly-claimed seat, Masika could see a strickened Nefertiri spinning her blades. Her mask hung around her neck, and she had a very tight set to her mouth. Across the expanse of floor stood the sleek and dark Anck-su-namun, looking entirely unperturbed. Most eyes were on the concubine. Masika scanned the chamber for Seti's High Priest. He stood next to the Pharaoh on the dais, enjoying the scene with an expression of mild contentment. His eyes skimmed the room, pausing on her form. Masika's hand rose to her chest, center, near her heart. _"Missing you."_ His bare skull inclined a fraction of an inch. Small, secret messages.

On the sparring ring, the formalities began. Nefertiri's eyes sought out Masika's, who did her very best to appear calm and collect. It was not easy.

They began.

And soon, Nefertiri was facing Anck-su-namun's blade. Entirely cornered, she had lost. The Great Hall echoed with applause for the concubine. Nefertiri backed up, set of her jaw fierce.

The concubine's sheer ability was overwhelming to spectators and participants. The slim blades met again and again, but never with flesh. Anck-su-namun was skilled. And with more than a pair of sparring forks. Her tongue was just as sharp, turning out mocking phrases, taunts, lashing the teenaged Princess without mercy. The entire display horrified Masika, who had seen these sort of displays her entire life. But Anck-su-namun was unlike anything she had ever seen. Masika feared for Nefertiri. The crowd, however, seemed to feel differently.

It was a power struggle for Seti's affections. No blood was shed, but the princess felt the sting of humiliation.

Again they clashed. Again and again until Anck-su-namun held up her hand, wicked lips curled.

"Enough. I grow weary. We are done, little princess.

The royal in question gritted her teeth, bowed, and exited the room, shoulders tense and tight. Masika made to follow, but was prevented by Adolphus, who wished for wine. Wanting to offer support, Masika haggle with him, promising to soon return. Adolphus's airy nature paired with drink might give her more time. She would not worry about him. The princess needed her.

Princess Nefertiri was found in the weapons chamber, a room near the stables that housed practices rings and a vast collection of weaponry. She was hacking apart one of the practice dummies. Masika kept her distance, standing against one of the room's massive columns. As Nefertiri slice through the wood and wool dummy, her friend waited patiently. After what felt like centuries, the princess stopped. Her chest heaved fury glinting in her vision.

"That _bitch," _the princess seethed. "Will not overtake me again. Not in my father's house."

"She is your father's concubine," her friend stated quietly.

Nefertiri spun on her heel. "I don't care. She has no right…It is not so much, the spar as her principles. To speak in such a manner, Masika, she is positively vile! Do you see or is it merely my imagining?

No, Masika agreed, the princess wasn't imagining the concubine's nastiness. But, for now, there was not much they could do. Tears in her eyes, Nefertiri dropped the sword she'd been holding. Masika sooth as best she could, assuring the princess of her nobility, heart, how her people loved her. It did not do much to ease the teen's mind. A fire raged in her. She had been dishonored, and knew it.

After perhaps thirty minutes, Nefertiri excused the merchant's daughter, saying she was going to further dismember the dummy before returning to her room. Masika left as silently as she came-

-that is until, in the long columned corridor leading to the Great Hall, a hand shot out from the darkness, brushing her arm. Masika uttered a low scream. She spun, but the hand's owner moved, so she ended up backing into someone.

Imhotep caught her wrist, making a _"shhh"_-ing noise as he turned her to face him. In the darkness, his lapis and gold collar gleamed. She could smell the prayer oil on him, a slight, spicy scent, undertones of sweet wine. hinted in his breath He ran his hands up and down her arms. Masika inhaled, giggling slightly. The shadows of his face turned upwards, smile lifting her spirits.

"What are you doing?" Masika whispered.

"I followed you and the princess. How does she fare?"

"Well enough, considering. But why have you really come?"

"I have missed you."

She laughed again. "We've been apart a few hours."

"Mmmhm, it's enough. Especially seeing you with _him._ The Greek."

Hurt, she pulled back. "I am Greek."

"No, no," the priest pulled her to him. "You know I do not mean that. Masika Oni-Rehama, you know I adore you. Your blood means nothing…but _he _is a…a…"

"Stop." A finger lifted to his lips, putting pause in his speech. "He is a man. Nothing more. Do not let this worry you, Imhotep."

Against her finger, he smiled again. "Of course. If you bid it, _Panya_."

"I do."

For several minutes, they stood together, absorbing one another's presence. Breathing slowed, eyes drifted shut. They were at peace, for a small period of time. Rarely did they find moments like this. Usually their affection was limited, always fearing detection. Yet here, tucked between two columns, the pair felt safe. All were occupied in court. Had they had longer, he would have asked her to his compartments. A chess set awaited them, cool juice, comfort. But Adolphus was also waiting- - -for Masika's return. The thought running through Imhotep's was tangible to his partner; his increased grip upon her was indication enough. She hugged closer.

He shifted suddenly. "Rehama. I intend to ask Osi for your courtship."

Masika stared. Her mouth fell slack.

Imhotep continued, ignoring her expression. "I want to marry you. Your father cannot object- - - a union between us will be far more advantageous than with any trader. Do you…have any objections to my proposal?"

She could not speak. He always had this effect on her, shocking her to the point of dazed consciousness.

A hand moved to her cheek, cupping the warm flesh. "Tell me, _Panya. _Oh, Osiris, tell me I am not being foolish in assuming you wish this, too."

"I…."

"Masika Oni-Rehama." The other hand moved up to frame her face. "Please."

"Oh, I do not know," she whispered. "What of Nefertiri? My marriage to Ra?"

"You need to live for yourself, _Panya. _The princess cannot have you forever. And neither can the god."

"But you can?" she responded, lightly amused.

He was entirely serious, eyes darkening. "A different matter. Do not argue- - - you're distracting me."

"I apologize."

Imhotep stood back, drawing his hands away and standing against the nearest column. He was angry. Masika wished to appease him, only, could not find it in herself to voluntarily accept his proposal. It had only been a few months, could not they wait…?

"Imhotep. Please. I don't mean to mock you. I…my feelings are the same." Masika swallowed. "Truly. I could imagine…no one else."

There was no smiling. He crossed his arms. "Then there will be no problem."

"None."

She hated this. Hated that their love had be such an argument. How he pushed for more, further, faster than she wanted to go. Adolphus threatened him; she felt that well. But it was no cause for rushing. No cause at all.

**-XXX-**

Her father accepted the proposal with relative ease and excitement. Disappointed, perhaps, as he liked Adolphus, would have preferred a Greek, but the High Priest of Seti I was not to be refused. It would be a distinguished match. Pride consumed him, and he congratulated his daughter for her loveliness and warmth that drew the priest in. Poor Adolphus was told over a brief meeting only three days later. His weeks of courtship, a waste. Imhotep was undeniably smug.

Masika hesitated in telling Nefertiri. Her friend, she knew, was disinclined to like the young priest. However, it would be best to hear it from a friend, rather than court gossip. So she meekly explained the situation as the princess was bathing four or so days following the informal betrothal. Among the floating lilies, the ethereal young woman listened, nodding slowly. She was unsurprised, perhaps slightly disappointed, and overall encouraging. Masika was a loyal friend. Regardless of Nefertiri's dislike of Imhotep, she would give unyielding support. It was the gracious thing to do.

Even with her apprehension, Masika was excited by the thought of upcoming events. The betrothal, the wedding, the celebration….all would be right, she was sure.

The day came, hot and bright. She found it ironic that they were to be wed under such light circumstances, as most of their relationship had been conducted in cover of darkness, or at least in secrecy. Later, Imhotep shared in her humor.

She rose early to be dressed in a clean linen dress. White, it draped against her figure nicely, held in place by a woven leather belt and a lapis broach. The stone shaped like a scacred sun. Her collar- - -an early wedding present - - -was stringed with coral, onyx, and gold. Golden beads replaced the glass in her hair, which was left unrestrained. Bracelets adored her arm, some simple wooden rings, and a few gold snake bangles. Her toe nails were painted a vivid pink-red. Servants layer khol and gold paint on her eyelids. Looking at her reflection in the well in the courtyard of their home, Masika hardly recognize herself.

Osi escorted her to the temple. Weddings were not religious affairs, but as Imhotep was High Priest certain standards had to be met. The brief ceremony would occur in the confines of the temple-house. Then would come the banquet at her father's house. Once night came upon them, Imhotep would take her into his home. And they would be married.

Imhotep's second priest met them at the door of the inner temple. The gold-skin man was excited, ushering them through to the temple-house.

At the base of the idol kneeled Imhotep, his back to them. When the door shut, closing out the fan of light that had appeared with their entrance, he stiffened, turning slowly. Upon seeing his bride, hands folded, eyes to the floor, Imhotep visibly relaxed. A timid Masika sought his gaze. She was greeted with such a radiant beam, the girl tripped. Her father frowned, taking her by the elbow to lead her across the expanse of floor. Once before the High Priest, he bowed. Masika, however, did not. She stood before her almost-husband. Small smile on his face, he inclined his head.

Once her father had straightened, Imhotep spoke. "Sir, you honor me with the privilege of union with your daughter. I thank you."

"No, it is you, my lord, who honors us. Masika Oni-Rehama is my pride. And now, she shall be yours."

"Yes," the priest's eyes were on hers, dark and warm and liquid. "My pride entirely. Rehama."

She smiled softly. Imhotep offered forth a hand, which she accepted. With a quick gesture, several of the priests came forward. One carried a low bowl of water, another a jar of wine and small box of anointing oil. The final fellow bore two lotus, pale pink and still covered in morning dew, along with a length of silk. They stopped at the dais, bowing to the altar. Masika pulled closer to Imhotep as the men set up.

When they were ready, Imhotep lead her to the center of the dais. His second began, anointing their foreheads while murmuring traditional chants. Their hands were joined with the silk. Fingers dipped into the water, held to their lips as they each repeated promises of loyalty, love, and kindness. They were so quiet, voices hushed with reverence.

Next another bowl was filled with wine. They shared the drink, Imhotep smiling slightly with the memory of her dislike of the beverage. It was a symbol of shared life-to share your food, your drink, your life breath. Then it was time for the flowers.

Hands still tied loosely, they each accepted a bloom.

Holding life in each other's hands was the primary symbol for the flowers. It also represented beauty in purity, and beauty beyond beginnings-for flowers started off often small, ugly brown seeds, not delicate blooms. The reminder of loveliness growing with love was a key factor in the ceremony. Masika's flower would be tied to Imhotep's wrist, and his would be tucked neatly behind her ear. More words were said, then the couple had to untie their silken knot. Once that was completed, the ceremony finished. They were a union.

**Quick note: I researched Ancient Egyptian Weddings and Ceremonies. According to most of my research, the traditions of the ceremony - - -if there was, in fact, one- - - are virtually never mentioned. Therefore, all of the business above is my speculation.**


	5. Chapter 5

**In the Nile's Emerald Depths, chapter 5 **

**Major developments in this chapter. We're approaching the end of the ancient side of the story-in another chapter of two we'll be getting to Leora's POV. **

**Reviews have not been so forth coming. Feedback would be great, but this fandom had died down a bit since the movie's glory days. It's to be expected-at least I've gotten some response, unlike my on-going Aeon Flux bit. Talk about a ghost town. **

**Anyways, enjoy. **

**-XXX-**

They found ease in their marriage. Imhotep was, simply put, the marrying sort. Masika took a little time to find balance in her new life, but they soon enough were on an even keel. They rubbed along quite nicely then. Running a household had never appealed to her before, but she found she quite liked it. There was a small fleet of servants more than willing to help her plan around the day. Her husband came to appreciate the effect of a figurehead of the household-as a whole, the day ran much more smoothly. Sensible decisions were made without his consultation. For a good, long time they were happy.

Masika loved the freedom of marriage. As a child, she'd heard women speak of figurative chains being unbound upon their unions, and always took it as a silly, unrealistic thing. But then she saw- - - there was no need for permission to go to market, alerting anyone whenever she left the house, or visited the garden. She no longer required escorts to the temple. And, with her own allowance, shopping was suddenly much, much easier. Imhotep did not care what she did in regards to decoration, food, planning. It was all hers to control. Masika loved it.

Quickly, the pair found themselves in a small storm of older, wiser, longer-married friends, offering advice, support, and eagerly awaiting the arguments. Most had suffered through heartbreak in the infant months of their unions. To see even the most dedicated couple at odds with one another would assure them that they were normal. To fight was natural.

Unfortunately, they were disappointed- - - while there were occasional spats and disagreements, no wars came. It just wasn't them; they communicated well enough.

-XXX-

He never experienced as much pride as seeing her swollen with child. Humming gently, she would wander throughout their home, one hand resting on her growing bump. He might sit and watch her for hours on end, perfectly content. Masika was surprisingly mellow in her condition, which only furthered their quiet happiness.

They had their dark moments. Masika's mother had perished in labor, taking her second child with her. This haunted the entire pregnancy. The couple fretted together. When the memory surfaced, Masika would grow distant. Imhotep was put on edge in these moments. As the months passed, he knew they could not live like this; they needed a back-up.

He delved further and further into magical studies- - - something he ought to have done long ago. There were healing spells in his mentor's scrolls, small and vast, for everything from cuts, bruises to broken limbs, bruised organs and severe lacerations. The greatest could bring back the dead, healing the body and retrieving the soul from Anubis's realm. The scroll warned of the god's offense at the removal of a soul, but an offering and plenty of prayers should sway his wrath.

The thought of such a spell impressed the priest. How very useful, that he might revive those close to him. As for his wife, well….they need not worry over what should a wondrous occasion. He might very well save his wife and child, should it be needed.

Imhotep could never forgive himself if he did not _try._

However, his wife was entirely opposed to what the scrolls had to offer. Something he wasn't prepared for.

She happened across the old papyrus scrolls one afternoon by mistake. Masika came to inquire after their evening plans- - - she felt too tired for a visit to the court. Draping herself behind Imhotep's chair, she lightly nuzzled his neck. Her husband chuckled softly. The papyrus was jostled, making a distinct crackle. Reaching down, Masika asked after the contents' of her husband's reading materials. Casually, the priest replied, "A few chants, ceremonial healing spells. Things I thought might be…useful. To us."

"Us?" Masika tugged the scroll away to scan the primitive paper. The deeper into the tect she became, the further she drifted from him, stepping away fully at one point to pace the floor. Wary, Imhotep was silent as his wife shook out the paper, squinted to read the hieroglyphs, bit her lip. In no time her pallor had whitened, colour vanishing.

Turning to him slowly, expression grave, she said, "A resurrection spell? For-"

The pitch of her voice was enough to make him wince. Imhotep replied calmly. "I want to be prepared."

"For this?" she whispered. "I don't even want to think- - - "

She was clearly distraught. He rose cautiously. "It is nothing more than a precaution."

Trembling, Masika asked, "And what of the baby? This spell is for one. What then?"

There was a deafening silence that engulfed the room as the Nile's flood on spring banks. The couple stared at one another, the few feet physically separating them suddenly feeling immense. Lips parted, Masika's breath had stopped. Her husband appeared very, very somber.

"I cannot live without you," he began. "And, unfortunately, if you both…go…it will be you I shall seek."

Masika sank to her knees, eyes on the floor. When she glanced up, tears welled in their corners.

"The baby…will have only just come into the world. Their soul will not be concrete. It is as if for every second spent in this life is like a thread attaching the soul to earthly existence. You will have many threads. And they…they shall not," he explained softly.

His wife shuddered against the stone. "Imhotep."

"I am sorry, Masika…."

"This is only a possibility," she whispered. "Not certain! Oh, Isis."

He was fierce. "I will not let you…not when I might…."

She shook her head. Imhotep crossed to kneel before her, gathering her to him. Both pensive, a hearty pause followed. Each had been hurt in an inadvertent, well-intentioned manner. Neither knew what could prevent a further divide. It was as if the surface had just been slightly cracked. If they went deeper, they feared discovering even more incompatible notions. And then they would simply break.

No one wanted that.

Finally Masika spoke.

"This is only a small possibility; many have overcome similar circumstances. The steps we've already taken may have prevented me from sharing my mother's fate. We cannot dwell, it will kill us. I don't want to consider…"she breathed, swallowing slowly. "I wish to only speak of this once, and then never again."

Masika looked him straight in the eye. "If you love me, you will let me die. You will save our child, and leave me to Anubis. And, even if the babe is healthy and I fade, Imhotep, I bid you: _let me pass." _

"How can you ask this of me?" he whispered, eyes dark.

"I cannot have that spell in your debt. It would kill you. And what of the god? His anger could not affect us? What of later?" Masika caressed her swollen womb. "Everything has its price. I shall pay this one."

"I cannot let you."

"You must."

She said this so simply. Imhotep was so taken aback. He reached for her belly. It was tepid. Beneath the flesh there was a slight vibration. Their child. When he glanced up, she was watching him, head tilted.

"As you wish, _Panya."_

**-XXX-**

With that, he put away the scrolls. As promised, they did not speak of it again.

Then came the day. The single day all of his worst fears came to realization.

It started in the morning. He awoke to her in his arms. She shuddered against the blankets, as though cold. Imhotep blinked back morning sunlight as his wife shifted toward him. Sweat lined her forehead. Her husband reached out, and as she moved closer, her features jolted in a wince. Imhotep's brow furrowed. "Masika?"

She stared up, open-mouthed, breathless.

"What is it?"

Her mouth contorted again. "Oh, Isis," she murmured. "I've started, I think.."

In a second he was sitting up, out of bed, crossing to their bedroom door to shout for servants. When they came, all she could make out were hushed tones. No distinct words or phrases. Seconds later he was back, on his knees beside her, eyelevel.

"A midwife is coming. How do you feel?" His fingers skimmed her brow and cheek.

Masika's eyes were tight. "It hurts far more that I thought it might," she whimpered slightly.

"It will hurt," he reminded her. "But you are strong. You can bear this."

His wife almost laughed.

The midwife and her women arrived in only fifteen minutes-fifteen minutes too long, in Imhotep's mind. But they had selected her for skill, not proximity. She bustled in with her three girls, moving Imhotep to the corner.

The first thing the midwife did was push back the sheets. Then, they found it. The beginning of his nightmare.

Deep burgundy stained the linen. Masika did not see this, as she was being lifted to sit by two of the girls, gasping from the motion. But Imhotep saw, and the midwife saw. They exchanged horrified glances. Then, a silent communication passed between the priest and midwife: _Do not tell Masika. Not yet. _

Then, as if it were like any other labor, the woman calmly turned to her girls, setting them about work, ordering new sheets, boiling water, and something cool for the mother. Imhotep did not leave his wife's besides as the rush of activity moved by them.

Hours passed. Masika's pain increased doubly. Imhotep's lips were tighter than a bowstring.

"Is it always this bad?" Masika asked, withering from discomfort.

"Only with your first," the midwife assured her merrily. But her expression when she turned away told Imhotep otherwise; this pain was not normal. Whatever his wife was suffering, it was not standard for most labors.

After nearly twelve solid hours of labor, the baby was ready to come. Her shattering contractions peaked. A little more blood escaped with each. Dusk had fallen. The High Priest was pulled from the room when he began to speak of _the spell._ Without a word, his wife's face crumbled and she burst into tears. The midwife scolded, and insisted he be removed until reasonably calm. Imhotep protested as the girls shoved him out the door. He remained outside for twenty minutes, anxiously fretting.

Earlier in the day, he'd cornered the midwife to confirm their options.

"Her body will not handle this. The baby will be born, and she will fade."

"No-"

"There is no way around it. This child will be born, but his mother…she may last to morning. But the blood…maybe not."

He would not allow it. There was an alternative. If she would see his misery, perhaps.

When Masika began pushing, Imhotep was allowed to enter. Her cries pained him greatly, but he simply held her wrists, ignoring the blood and the midwife's strained expression. Ages passed before the head appeared. Masika prayed to Isis for strength while Imhotep silently bided Anubis to spare his wife.

Finally, finally the baby was out. The midwife's girls swept it away. A few seconds later there was a high-pitched cried. Sagging against the headboard, Masika gasped in relief. Her husband rose as the child, swaddled and cleaned, was presented. It was passed directly to Masika. Still aching, in breathless awe, the mother examined her read, wrinkly, sobbing creature as thought it were the most precious she had ever beheld.

"What-What-?"

"A boy," the midwife offered quickly. "Healthy and strong."

Masika stroked her son's nose with one finger. He'd mostly stopped crying, leaving only muffled whimpers. Imhotep sank beside her, catching her elbow for a gentle caress. But she only had eyes for her boy.

"Nsu," she said quietly. "Strong."

She looked to her husband for confirmation. His gaze was already upon her.

"Yes. Nsu."

**-XXX-**

When they told her, she was very quiet. Imhotep remember then her mother had gone this same way. The pain, the blood…all similar. After a lengthy pause, Masika spoke.

"Very well, then."

Her husband roared.

"Masika!" He stood. "No, we can _prevent _this. I can stop this. You're being foolish."

She watched him rage, then calmly asked the midwife, "My son, please."

"Yes, miss," the woman quickly complied, turned from the room to retrieve the babe.

Imhotep fell to his knees beside their bed, eyes blank. Masika took his hands into her own, touching the knuckles.

"Will you not even consider…." He faltered. "Rehama…_Panya, _you are my life."

"And you are mine," she assented. "Entirely. Which is why I cannot let you do this. The cost is not worth it. Imhotep," Masika took his chin, tilting it up. "I love you. You do not deserve a life with that debt. I swear, when your time comes, I shall be there waiting for you. But until then, you must let go."

"You want to leave me," he accused darkly.

His wife shook her head, lips curling. "You think I would wish to die? To see my child grow up motherless? To watch you mourn? This is not what I wanted. I seek life as much as you. But not _this way._"

As much has he cursed her, caressed, demanded and pleaded, she would not allow him to even entertain the notion; he'd made a promise. She swore to resist all efforts.

Already weary, the stress of the argument drained her. Guilt settled over him, and Imhotep faltered in his words. So, he rested beside his wife. The midwife entered when silence resumed.

When the baby came, they sat together, observing their son. While the night moved on, Masika sunk further and further into bed- - - even sitting was tiring. For the most part, Imhotep spoke, reliving aloud their courtship, describing their son's blazing future. Masika smiled, breathe labored.

In the early hours of the morn, Masika gave a small, shuddering cry. Her husband, who had left for a cup of water at Masika's request, flew up the stairs. Upon his reaching the threshold, his wife half-turned in the bed. She locked eyes with the High Priest, then, quite suddenly, the eyes lost focus. Mouth, partially open, his love lay frozen in her weary loveliness.

She was gone. Departed to Anubis's judgment chamber.

He would never forgive her for that.

**-XXX-**

**I'll be honest-I didn't research anything about miscarriages or women dying after giving birth. Everything up there was a result of imagination of what it might look like, how a midwife in ancient Egypt might run a labor, etc. If I've made any majoy mistakes (I'm 18 and never had kids), please let me know so that I might make the fixes. **

**Awesome.**

**~Dania**


	6. Chapter 6

**In the Nile's Emerald Depths, chapter 6**

**A few alterations to the general plot of the movie...**

**It's always great to have feedback, so a quick shot out to my followers! **

**-XXX-**

He did not return to that room for a very long time. She was still there- - - -the midwife and her women were cleaning her and preparing her for the embalmers. They braided her hair in golden beads, dyed her nails, painted on a thin layer of gold upon her eyes.

Following promises had never ached so much.

For a time, he simply held his son, cradling him to his chest, holding the tiny skull in one hand. The child was red and wrinkled, tiny, gasping and whimpering still for breath. The High Priest massaged the babe's chest as the midwife instructed. The child coughed, then accepted the rush of air to tiny lungs. It squirmed against him, murmuring whimpers. By midday, it had fallen asleep. He placed the babe in the craved cradle in the nursery- - - one Masika picked out, with stars and suns and animals painted along the wooden surface. On the windowsill nearby sat a small, gray stuffed mouse. Imhotep turned away.

The child he could not resent. It was his cause, but no malicious reason. He was a babe. Masika's choice.

She had picked this crying creature over continuing her life with him. Dedicated her final moments of breath into naming, caressing, promising the baby eternal love. Nsu Nife-en-Ankh. Strong breath of life.

A slap in the face.

Imhotep felt utterly wasted. Masika's eyes still haunted him, wide and bright and begging for love. Ever his mouse.

All day he sat next to his son, rocking the babe when he awoke, singing soft songs he'd learned long ago at the temple. A wet nurse arrived shortly before dusk. Imhotep passed off the babe for the evening, departing for his temple. Preparations must be made for his wife. A tomb awaited her- - - just outside of town, west of the Nile she so loved. He would be buried there too, in time, then Nsu. All of their children would have.

After informing his men of Masika's passing, the High Priest retired to one of the small dormitories housed in the temple. On the thin pallet, for the first time since he felt her soul rushing past him, the man's shoulders heaved, howling against the cushions, fists clenched. He was a breaking dam of raw emotion. Oh, that she could see him now. If Anubis granted him anything, it would be that his wife see him falling in such a manner. Let her feel the burden of his pain, echoing for eternity, let her see the cracks and faults. He would have torn apart Thebes, opened the afterlife's doors to have her back again. But it was not to be.

She was gone. Dead and gone and never returning to him.

**-XXX-**

From that point, the priest threw himself into his work. He rarely saw the boy, who was primarily reared by his nurse and the household staff. Two years after Masika's passing, he was a dark, babbling creature. The skin was about her colour, honeyed, but his eyes were as dark and liquid as his father's. He was a pleasing little creature. Imhotep adored the boy, but avoid excessive attentions to him. Nsu, as he was commonly called, did not appear to greatly miss time with his father. But he did, however, occasionally strain for an invisible figure, always out of Imhotep's eye, the babe's chubby limbs wriggling. The High Priest supposed it to be Masika, watching from beyond her tomb.

He had sealed her up somberly, wrapped in white linen, arms crossed, surrounded by treasures, including a miniature of her babe. Words were painted on the tomb walls, describing her life, beauty, and marriage. She was granted a peaceful passage. He still visited, occasionally, almost always alone. Though, when Nsu came, he could not understand the gravity of the place. Yet without fail, he would reach up to touch her painted likeness. Imhotep could barely stand it.

The nurse knew to answer any questions about Nsu's mother, when the time came. Imhotep would not keep the memories from him. That was not kind.

As part of his work, he frequented the palace. Seti wanted to commemorate his rule with a series of new monuments, and required a priestly point of view. He wished to leave a glorious realm for his son Ramesses. The boy was a mere child, but already showed great leadership. He had potential to be a fine ruler. Imhotep was charged with overseeing the praise and attribution portion of the statues and such. It was in service of his kingdom, harmless work that would take his mind off from things of a darker nature.

In the third year of Masika's end, his eyes were drawn away from the architect's layouts to the court beauty- Anck-su-namun. The forbidden fruit. Every day she was painted in layers and layers of gold and black all to prevent men's lust upon her. She flaunted this metaphorical fence, wearing barring clothes, emphasizing her shapeliness through style of walk, etc. The king worshiped her. She was, in a sense, his greatest mortal weakness. In less than four years in his court, she had battled her way up to become the primary concubine, and was quick to begin eyeing the consort position. Though, if the princess had her way, the concubine would be out of house, home, and perhaps a few necessary limbs. Nefertiri's grudge held strong.

Imhotep at first paid Anck-su-namun no mind. She tended to drape over the Pharaoh like a spoilt cat while they were in a session of planning, which was annoying, and her found her bold nature, sexuality simply bizarre, unnecessary. She was silently vulgar. A powerful she-cat, sleek, simpering, everything he detested. Imhotep avoided her as much as possible, but Seti enjoyed her company (if not her form), and allowed her to lounge around him even as they discussed delicate business.

Then she began to leave him with lingering gazes. Began seeking him out with questions on ceremony, decorum, his duties. All while laying out that lanky, smooth, golden form before him.

Soon, he was lost in the depth of her eyes.

And, sooner still, he found himself listening to her plight, her dream of higher things. If only if only Seti would see her as…a consort? But what could a high priest do about that….?

Oh, he might do anything.

In exchange for a kiss, the High Priest accepted the quest.

It was in discussion over the newest temple resurrection in Memphis. Nefertiri was sitting in this time, instead of Anck-su-namun. The princess was quite pleased to be there. It was the night Imhotep had selected for approaching the consort topic. Gently segwaying into the topic of pleasing gods, and Ramesses's future, the High Priest began to speak of marriage, additional heirs, how it might be to Seti's advantage to produce a princess worthy of marriage to Ramesses's, as Nefertiri was already engaged. Seti listened patiently, absorbing the priest's words. The longer Imhotep spoke, the narrower Nefertiri's eyes became, until they were hateful silts carved into a stone face. When Anck-su-namun's name was mentioned, the princess's eyes closed altogether in disgust.

Afterwards, they departed, Seti pondering the priest's words, Nefertiri livid. She stormed from the room after Imhotep, calling down the corridor for him. "Priest, a word."

He detested her tone, but came to her beckoning. They entered one of the palace's numerous courtyards. He sat on the edge of the center fountain, waiting, arms crossed. The princess had a mighty scowl.

"What do you think you're playing at, suggesting my father's head whore becomes _consort_, a position of honor and dignity far beyond her? I thought you respected my father, and this house," she spat.

"I am looking out for your brother's future," the High Priest replied calmly. "She is a beautiful woman who will provide strong, noble heirs- - - "

Nefertiri stopped him sort. "Oh," she said, eyes wide. "Oh, oh, oh. I can _see. _I see what has happened. She has you. Has you thinking she is loves you, ought to be pitied and protected." The princess laughed, but there was no mirth in her notes. "You, the High Priest? Succumb to the petty tricks of a pretty face."

"She is more than a trick," Imhotep snarled, rising.

"No," the princess shook her head, mouth set bittersweetly. "Oh, how wrong I was. It is not my father nor my family you so greatly disrespect in entertaining this notion."

"Ah?"

"Masika is the one you dishonor." Nefertiri's voice cooled considerably at these words. "For Anck-su-namun is everything she is not, everything she detested, everything greater than that whore."

"You dare…?" Imhotep whispered, shaking slightly, enraged. "Compare…they are- - You have no idea what I have suffered for her. She _left me."_

Pity tinged the princess's tone. "Loneliness is no reason to be foolish. Do you think she would be happy to see you suffer? Happy to see her good work, her love, fall as another's was lifted in her stead. She would not like this path, Imhotep."

"You do not know."

"I was her friend- - - "

He rounded on the princess. "And I her husband," he hissed. "And I see her, every night, bare and sorrowful. Her eyes are on me, always. I can see her _always, _Nefertiri, haunting me, in awake and sleep. We're bound eternally, but I am stuck to this life. I am…I have been abandoned here _by her._ Do not presume to know my pain, princess. Ours are not the same."

There was a long, long moment where neither moved nor breathed nor spoke. They were frozen, the princess's eyes wide. He had surprised her. Imhotep had never spoken of Masika's constant-looming over his life. He had not told Nefertiri of Nsu's visions, his invisible figure, blind love of a mother he never truly knew. It was not to be spoken of-he was High Priest, noble and revered. High Priest did not have visions. They did not muse or mourn over dead wives. They were detached men. They moved on.

Only, he hadn't.

Finally, the princess spoke slowly, pronouncing each word.

"If you loved her, you would stop this. Honor her. Stay away from that vile snake. You are better. Scheming is poison."

"I cannot stop now."

"Can you not try?" she challenged.

He did not answer. The princess made to leave, but paused before turning back to say:

"If this is the lot you cast now, know that as dearly as I loved Masika, love your son, and respect you, I shall not be idle as your and her work to manipulate my father."

With nothing left to say, the princess made her exit, silent and fuming. Imhotep was left alone, the fountain's quiet gurgle and moon's cool beams his only companions.

**-XXX-**

The day came when Anck-su-namun's love tested him, truly tested him. The day they were caught.

Seti had decided against Imhotep's proposal. In part, the High Priest was relived, but the concubine's disappointment mingled with his own emotions; on her behalf he was slighted. That was when Anck-su-namun began plotting. A few whispers, and the priest was convinced of the Pharaoh's wickedness, the strength of their love, how their freedom came with quite a cost. At the beginning, Imhotep resisted these dark schemes. He was Seti's advisor if not friend. He'd been present for the birth almost all of the king's children, baptized them. He had blessed all royal artifacts, performed many a ceremony at the king's bidding. Seti had trusted him even when others tutted. The Pharaoh gave him a chance; the confidence to assume his role with dignity, even at his young age.

Her smudged paint was their undoing. Suddenly, the Pharaoh was there, and what else was there to do? One look into Anck-su-namun's dark eyes he knew they had to act. The cost of their secrecy must be paid. With every blow to Seti, Imhotep grew a little more numb. Beyond a conscious state, he looked up to see Anck-su-namun, and saw that she was smiling. Reveling in their brutality. She was _enjoying _the moment. But Imhotep looked away. He had long stopped seeing.

Then he was being dragged away by his ever-loyal priests, taken for his own good, as the Mejai tore through the doors, screaming at the concubine, calling out for their king. Again and again Imhotep promised her in his heart that he would resurrect her with Anubis's spell- - - exactly what Masika had once begged him to withhold. But she was not Masika.

The shadow of her suicide haunted him throughout the night as they road to the city of the dead. Seeing that blade plunging into her stomach….The emotions were different. There was a smaller depth than what he had experienced in losing Masika. The priest naturally assumed it had to do with the spell-soon the concubine would be arisen, new again. There had been no such reassurances with his young wife.

He resented her for it.

Over the vessel he prayed, calling his love from Anubis's realm back to a world of life. The dark mass that arose did not resemble his love. But Imhotep kept reading, eyes moving back to the body. They did not shift again.

That is, until the Mejai pulled him away. For a brief instant she breathed and lived again. Yet the incantation was incomplete; she faded in seconds. The priest's shattering scream was enough to silence a few of the Mejai. Pity reigned in the room-they knew him, knew of his losses.

And they also knew of his crimes. There was no salvation for the murderer of a pharaoh. His fate was determined. They would not consider any alternative to the _Hom Dai. _

There, in the temple, surrounded by his men being wrapped and wounded, torn apart by make-shift embalmers, Imhotep considered his life. Nsu would be cared for by his nurse, the others left in the temple, perhaps even the princess, or Masika's father. He would thrive without his father, perhaps moreso now. The temple had a secondary priest would might easily assume Imhotep's place. All orders of business could be taken care of by Osi.

It was a true pity he would not see the afterlife. Death with Masika had been all he ever wanted. But his punishment conveniently did not allow for any pleasures. He would rot, for eternity, in the tomb.

Or so they thought.

As the lid closed, as the beetles began to tear at his flesh, the High Priest only saw one thing- - -the very thing he'd concentrated on since the embalming process began, the object of his sole focus. A pair of blue-green eyes, deep, like the Nile's emerald depths.

**-XXX-**

**Reviews? Please? I graduated last week, think of it as a gift to me. **


	7. Chapter 7

**In the Nile's Emerald Depths, ch 7**

**Welcome to the modern age. Well, at least, nearer the modern age. Fast-forwarding a little more than 3000 years, and here we are...**

**-XXX-**

Leora appreciated her uncle fully for his generosity. Few could say their relations could assume guardianship over them so interestedly. Horace was positively absorbed in his niece's rearing. Having no children himself, he showered her with attentions. She was groomed to be intelligent, poised, and observant-no large feat, as she already had these traits, and tutoring only increased the potential. Advice was often issued to her over the dinner table and accepted politely. Horace took his duty as guardian with great seriousness. In his career, he was the type of man who, when setting out to do something, always went in with the intentions of being the very best, producing quality work. He approached rearing young women the same way. He hired a French governess, gave Leora full run of his stables, entertained her with funny stories of his work. His niece indeed found tales of his digs amusing.

But living them out? Ah, perhaps not.

Horace thought it might be a very diverting expedition for his niece-how many young women could say they had participated in an archeological dig at Thebes? He very much hoped she would follow in his footsteps, become an Egyptologist- - - the field was slowly opening to women. Horace congratulated himself on the plan, assured his niece would thoroughly enjoy the experience.

The niece in question wasn't nearly as enthused. Leora indeed like that idea of participating in excavation, seeing mummies and pyramids, Yet, that was an idea. The practice…? But she did not protest, instead smiled, nodded, and ordered herself a new trunk and wardrobe appropriate desert garb. Madam DuBois, Leora's governess, was to accompany them, though with little pleasure. Young ladies of quality did not go traipsing around the Egyptian desert.

Horace was determined. And so, the party set out for the two-month dig. The group held approximately twenty. Madam and Leora were the only women.

They shared a spacious tent which contained several Persian rugs, a copper tub and rice paper privacy screen, crystal oil lamps, two cots, and a very nice card table. It was reasonable comfortable, though Madam turned her nose up to it. Leora settled rather nicely, setting up her trunk's travel wardrobe, and arranging the collection of books she brought. She was under the impression, when packing, that she would require a good deal of reading material.

In the evenings, the women ate around the campfire at the center of camp, with the workers. Most were native, quiet men, filled with an appreciation for their homeland (and the paycheck its historic locale could offer). Leora slowly picked up a feel for the general tone of their language-she was quite interested in languages, and hoped to someday study them.

The expedition was, at times, dreadfully dull. While entire parts of the day were spent inside the tent, Rainier was often only allowed out to paint, or observe some intense bits of work. She did not perform these archeological tasks herself, unfortunately. To her great displeasure, she was treated quite like a China doll: breakable, stiff, special. Women were a rarity on the expedition site. She was respected, certainly, but not enough that unsupervised visits to the worksites were encouraged.

It was not her uncle's first time in Thebes. Some eight years back he had recovered a mummy ages away in the recently-discovered Ahm Shere. Though toppled, in utter ruin, there were things to be found. It was a glorious place, and Horace had found quite a few treasures before coming across the mummy. The fellow had been identified as a Thebian priest. With great pride, the Egyptologist had returned the fellow to his temple, constructing a special glass-topped coffin to house the ancient corpse. It was his pride and joy, the crown jewel of his accomplishments. The newspaper clipping of the ceremony was with him always. Tucked in the upper inside pocket of his jacket. When she was younger, Leora would often ask for it, opening up the yellowed paper, smoothing the creases, running her fingers along the faded ink.

Only recently had his research identified the mummy as a disgraced priest of Seti I's reign. It was all quite exciting. The poor fellow was in horrid condition-the raiders would moved him left in a soon-to-be collapsing temple in Ahm Shere. Horace retrieved him on a weekend dig.

On the morning of their second day, Horace accompanied the pair of women on their introduction to "his" mummy. Leora already knew quite a bit about the mysterious corpse-Horace told her volumes. Madam was less interested, complaining of the sand. She was becoming quite a tedious bother, always fretting, or disapproving of the landscape in some manner. Her charge found it tiring and dull, a raincloud where she sought sunshine. Leora was doing all she could to make the best of the situation; Madam was in no way helping.

As they walked through the ruins, Uncle Horace started a monologue regarding the architecture of the period, the fall of the city, his most recent ventures. Leora only half-listen, as she was busy observing the hieroglyph pictures with a keen interest. The pictures themselves were quite lovely, but it was the words that enchanted her. Every so often, a word or two would stand out. _"Water." "Sun" "City." _Simple words. Some Horace had taught her, others she just knew. Her favourite always jumped off the stone- - - _"Mouse."_

"As you will see straight ahead, the temple! It is situated near the center of the city, adjacent to the palace. Note the smooth columns, tapered, the stairs- - - -how even!" Horace beamed, utterly delighted with the ancient's ingenuity. "Brilliant mathematicians, eh, Leora? Shows in their architecture."

"Yes, uncle," his niece replied politely.

"Yes, my girl, the vast knowledge of the ancients," he sighed as they started up the stairs. Leora was careful to watch her step, knowing the nature of old stairways. At the very least, she wasn't troubled by any skirts- - - -trousers, trimmed and fitted to her figure nicely, giving her legs plenty of freedom, and serving as prevention against tripping. Madam did not approve.

"I say, you could learn so much…we all could! Math, sciences, language, astronomy, philosophy, herbal studies, medicine! A wealth of knowledge. Tell me, my girl, are you keeping a journal? Something to show your children, you know, a bit of sport. Show them their old mum wasn't all fluff and stuff in her day, no."

"Of course. I've already painted some very nice water colours of those fountain ruins you showed me yesterday."

"Very good!"

They had by then reached the columns. The doors of the original temple were gone. An empty hole stood in its stead. There Horace paused the group. Leora smoothed her blouse, knowing another monologue was on the way. The governess stood stiffly, mood already defeated by the blistering heat, though it wasn't yet nine in the morning.

"Ladies, I must warn you that this particular specimen is…how shall I say…gruesome. Time and ill conditions have been hard on him, rendering a graphic figure. I know of your sensibilities, Madam DuBois. But do not fear- - - "

"I assure you, sir, there will be no fainting on my part," Madam said primly, cutting across her employer.

With that, they were lead inside. Upon entering, Leora was stunned to see polished floors, torches, lit and burning, lining the walls. A gurgling fountain stood beside a pair of huge doors across the hall. The scent of sandalwood and myrrh lazed through the air, overwhelming the young woman. She could hear the faint drone of prayer.

Then she opened her mouth, blinked, and the scene melted to ruins, her uncle and governess beside her. Grasses rose from the cracks in the tile, sunlight streamed in from the barren sky revealed by a crumbling ceiling. Sand had accumulated in the corners. It was ruins.

She decided it was the heat. Playing with her mind.

The group crossed the long hall to what Horace called the _"temple house." _Again, there were no doors, just a gap. "Near the back alter there is a vestibule," Horace explained. "Where the idol of the sun god Ra resided. As small worship sanctuary, you see. This was were the priests and the wife of Ra would pray daily."

Madam asked, "Wife? For a statue?"

"You must remember, they thought it embodied their god, as a sort of…channel. Yes, he had a wife-sometimes several. But it was the primary wife that lead the ceremonies, and performed most wifely duties."

A look of confusion and disgust crossed over the governess's face before the Egyptologist hastily explained the offerings of food, prayer, and incense.

"The idol would have been the primary focus. Well, that's long gone, so we put the chap in his stead. Probably spent a lot of time here, I would imagine. Here's the alter…watch your step now…."

They were soon in the vestibule. A large sandstone coffin took up a majority of the space. Leora's eyes were drawn to a small clay pot near the foor of the coffin, filled with lotus. Fresh, dew-covered blooms. Neither Madam nor Uncle made any comment, but it was still a curious sight to behold in Leora's eyes. After all, who left flowers for a man who had been dead three thousand years?

Horace stepped up to the dais. "Ladies, may I present the High Priest Imhotep."

Cautiously, the pair of women approached. The second Leora's eyes graced the horrid visage, she gasped aloud. Madam instantly flew back, entirely disgusted.

Leathery brown flesh with a sticky sheen of rot, an ever-grimacing mouth. A single eternal shriek contorting a wretched face. The mummy was as terrifying as Horace had warned them. Nevertheless, the girl was transfixed. By shock, disgust, fear, and something…something…more. Though frightening, the three-thousand-year-old man was also somewhat intriguing.

Inadvertantly, Leora pressed closer. The glass seemed to rippled as she moved, like the effect a stone had when toss upon a peaceful pool. Once more, the heavy scent of incense overpowered her. But neither of the adults appeared bothered by the smell.

"Well, my dear?" Horace peered at his niece across the threshold.

"He's…a curiosity," Leora finally managed. "Do they all look so…angry, Uncle Horace?"

He chuckled. "I must admit, there is some degree of discontentment to ever specimen, but we believe our fellow suffered from a rather violent death. Punishment, at the hands of a king."

"Oh. Yes. Of course."

**-XXX-**

**So, um, I just graduated from high school. Reviews would be a most excellent gift. And feedback is always appreciated. Question, comments, critiques, I take 'em all. **


	8. Chapter 8

In the Nile's Emerald Depths 8

For the rest of the evening, Leora mused over the mummy. For whatever reason, the distorted face could not leave her mind's eye. Even when she and Madam retired to their tent, Madam reading from some Dickens, the young woman was preoccupied. Even when their lamps were turned down and darkness consumed their canvas room, she couldn't draw it from her mind. On her cot, Leora stared straight ahead. What about that corpse was so enchanting? The mummy was _horrifying. _So, why was it stuck in her head?

After over an hour, Leora sat up. She massaged her temples, then crossed to the water carafe to pour herself a small glass. When this did not clear her mind, she paced. But the face remained. Solid, rippled as though under water. The grimace.

_"Some fresh night air," _she told herself. _"See the stars."_

One thing Leora could appreciate about the desert was its distance from the city-and therefore, the stars were more visible. The last time she had seen a night sky so bright she had been sailing to Alexandria with her mother. Stepping outside of her tent, Leora was greeted with a vision of stars. A half moon lighted the campsite. It was quite bright, making the shadows of the ruins appear deeper and darker.

No other life appeared in the campsite. All tents were dark, even Horace's (he was known for being something of a night owl). She was alone.

"_Well, that's grand," _she thought.

A notion had reached her mind, a whispered suggestion. Leora looked to that ruins, clustered some seventy meters away. They were imposing structures. Sleeping dragons, ancient and powerful.

She went back for a dressing gown (the brocade, a deep burgundy that nicely set off her liquid-black hair), as it was nippy, and her oxfords. Before leaving the ten, she pocketed their electric lamp. With that, she set out to visit her uncle's mummy.

Sand soon filled her shoes, but Leora trudged on. Whatever drew her to the temple ran strong. When she stumbled, when stand scratched her feet, she couldn't seem to convince herself from continuing on.

After topping the stairs, Leora crept into the hall. Inside, she turned on the electric lamp. It flickered once, twice, illuminating the wall carvings. The light swung round on a few reliefs. Words popped out at her. The usual small, baby words. But one echoed through her head- - - _"Mouse." _

Curious

For a few minutes, she examined the pictures, until a sound caught her attention. Almost a murmur, not quite a hush. Leora looked up, startled. She had assumed she was alone. Drifting toward the temple house, she heard nothing more. However, a faint flicker alerted her to the presence of light. Through the doorway, she looked past the alter in the center of the room. Light seeped in from the vestibule. The mummy's room.

What had Horace called him?

For the life of her, she couldn't remember.

On light feet Leora approached the vestibule. She did not enter, but hung around the threshold, peering in with caution.

There was no one- - - just a small oil lamp resting on the top of the glass. It cast a yellow light about the small room. By no means bright, it was enough to reveal the corners. The clay jar with the lotus was exactly where she'd previously seen it. Though closed, she could see the blooms were still reasonably fresh.

She entered, and the hush fell upon her once more. Leora crept forward, shivering lightly. The scene frightened her yes, but she couldn't bring herself to draw back. For whatever reason, she was compelled to surge on. This undeniable draw perhaps scared her more than the noise or the light.

Who had been here? Had Horace come earlier in the night to visit his specimen, leaving his lamp behind as he stumbled back to bed? Or was it someone else? Horace had never mentioned rivals, but Leora knew that the world of Egyptology was extremely competitive. Might someone have come to damage her uncle's pride and joy? It seemed silly. Her heart sunk with the very idea. _"Poor Horace." _

Upon entering, she noticed something curious in one of the corners of the room, previously hidden from view by the sarcophagus. A few scrolls. She crossed by the coffin, ignoring it for now, and bent to scoop the papers up. Papyrus. Old. And, she found, unrolling them, they were torn around the edges. As if taken from a book. Pages, she realized. Probably torn out. But for what cause?

Skimming the text, she could pick out a word or two- - -as usual when it came to the ancient Egyptian language. It frustrated her that she couldn't read anything here fully.

Moving toward the light, she held the papyrus up. Were the papers in here this morning? Had they group entirely missed them? Uncle Horace could be a little obtuse sometimes, but this was small. Not something he'd be likely to miss. Had they been placed there?

Once in the light the text seemed to jump off the page. Enchanted, Leora scanned the worn papyrus. Then, the black lines seemed to…to move. Alter, slightly, melting and twisting. Leora made to gasp, but what fell from her lips wasn't anything like a gasp. Words, unfamiliar and loosely flowing fell from her lips. The foreign speech felt heavy. She tried to stop, tried to quit looking at the ancient paper, but her eyes would not move, arms locking, tongue working against her. Internally she panicked. Never before had she experienced such a force against her.

Leora was a mild person, meek. She wasn't the sort to believe in magics, nor would she fiddle with them if she had believed. Tampering with ancient supernatural forces were not her forte. She fought internally, but nothing could release her from reading. She was trapped.

The oil's flame flickered. A wind picked up, first a small breeze, then a rolling flow. The hushing noises filled her ears. And then, finally, finally, she stopped, falling away from the sarcophagus and sinking to her knees. Her dressing gown pooled around her.

Silence claimed the temple.

Leora quaked on the ground, grasping her forearms, struggling for breath. _"Oh…oh…my…." _Shock overtook her.

But the night's tricks were not yet over. A small _"thump" _sounded, echoing through the vestibule. Leora froze. Another _"thump," _and she realized it was close. The third one was harder, more forceful. It was muffled. Slightly hallow. As though against glass-

She gasped this time, and it really did come out. A fourth noise came, and it was followed by a faint tinkle. Like breaking glass.

The young woman scrambled to her feet. A fifth and final hit, and all of the glass fell away with a loud chink. A thousand sparkling pieces fell into the sarcophagus, along with the lamp. The container broke, causing the light to fail. Darkness consumed the room. She fumbled for the electric light in her dressing gown pocket. Fingers shaking, somehow she found the slide and it flickered to life.

Swinging the beam around for the door, she was stopped by a noise. The light aimed for the center of the vestibule.

A shape shifted, dark and solid. It struggled from the coffin, pieces of glass falling to the stone with slight jingles. Several seconds later, it stood, full and tall.

Leora gaped. The mummy. The mummy was standing. The mummy was moving. Climbing from its sarcophagus. And moving toward her at a surprising speed.

She did not have time to shriek (though she dearly wished to do so). Scrambling to her feet, the young woman fled the room. She rushed into the temple house. Judging from the noise behind her, the creature was not far behind.

_"A dream, a horrid dream," _she begged herself.

Running was difficult in oxfords. She nearly tripped while dashing up the dais, but managed to keep on her feet, until-

She met the table. Centered, it blocked her way and slowed her down, forcing Leora to halt and turn.

The mummy loomed over her. Leora tried to keep the light off of him; she did not want her last living sight to be of such a terrible visage. A hand, leathery, found her wrist, wrapping around the limb. She released a muffled squeak. "_Oh, if it is now, let it be fast. Please," _Leora pleaded. _"Oh, please. Let it be quick…."_

No bones were broken. No blood shed. Instead, the electric lamp was plucked from her hand and held aloft. She closed her eyes, shielding herself from the light. But the hand on her wrist moved to her chin, shifting her head, compelling her to look forward. Blinking, Leora peeked.

The sight was horrifying. With the light directed on her she could just make out the bare and brown skull of the mummy. A pair of bright eyes focused on her, startlingly human. The hand on her chin, its texture shudder-worthy, drifted upward to skim her right cheek. Leora whimpered, wanting dearly to draw back. But she was trapped between the mummy and the table. He moved closer, sensing her discomfort.

"Masika."

Leora blinked. He'd spoken. A single word. He had vocal chords?

Again- - -"Masika."

She didn't know what this mean and had an even fainter idea of how she was expected to respond. After all, she could scarcely read ancient Egyptian, let alone speak it. At a loss, she tried the only response she could think of, the first word that came to mind.

"_Panya."_

A look crossed over the mummy's distorted features, something soft. He touched her cheek again, repeating the word. Leora nodded eagerly, saying it too. The word didn't seem to incite any murderous feels. It couldn't hurt to agree. Curious, that "mouse" would be so exciting to him, but she didn't question, merely agreed.

However, he began to say more. Full, complex sentences that left her blinking. When she did not answer, he tried again and then again. Even with a face bare of flesh, frustration managed to show itself clearly on his decayed features. Meekly, Leora shook her head. _"I don't know." _Considering, drawing away slightly, the mummy spoke again in a different kind of language, one that was vaguely familiar to her. She'd heard several of her uncle's workers speaking in the nasally tones. The Jewish ones. _"Hebrew?" _

She also didn't know this language. Biting her lip, Leora gave English a shot.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand."

For what felt like years, her words echoed around the temple house. Her voice made her cringe. High-pitched, whiney. Not attractive in the least. Madam would've scold her. _"Young Ladies of Quality do not whine." _

"You speak," he whispered. "Masika…."

Leora coward away, blood draining from her face. He responded. In English. She wasn't the fainting type by any means, but this might break her otherwise solid resolve.

_"This must be a terrible dream…just a dream…a nightmare, to be sure…." _But even as she assured herself of this, the young woman felt herself shaking. Somehow, she slid around the table. Backing away, one hand extended behind, the other between herself and the supernatural corpse. The mummy, naturally followed, trying again to communicate in clearly enunciated words. Funny, that in the shock of the moment, she was picking out odd details- - -such as his diction. She was so caught up, she barely knew what it was he was saying. She caught the tail end of a sentence, latching on desperately.

"-fearing me? Three thousand years or more, and you're still a mouse. Some things shall never alter, shall they? But you must not fear me, Masika…."

While his tone was rough, sandpaper on a chalkboard, his words were surprisingly gentle. This did little to slow her, however. Leora uttered a low cry when her back hit a wall. Somehow she'd walked straight into a corner, exactly diagonal from the alter, miles from the nearest doorway. Pressing herself together as best she could, the young woman sunk against the stone, resigned to her fate.

He'd stopped talking, simply stood before her. She dare not look up.

"I disgust you." It was not a question. "Perhaps, then you do not see that it is me? It's hard to look past this, sometimes." A pregnant pause. "I can change. Shall I? Would you…I know I would much rather have my own skin. Well-" There is a coarse laugh. "I suppose this is _mine_, in a sense. Does it not feel revolting? I hate to mar your perfection with such hideous limbs…and yet…."

She heard a faint rustle, and realized he'd bent to level with her. The rotting hand graced her arms. Leora shuddered away.

"Your beauty might be enough for both of us," the mummy said in a low voice. "It was before. I was never the handsome one."

Oh, she couldn't look! He was pressing upon her, gaze burning, attempting to draw her to him.

He was stopped, however, with one loud whistle. It came from a distance. A short tune. But a familiar one to Leora. _"Horace." _Madam must have woken to find her charge absent from her bed. Horace would've come to search for her, of course.

It was how they communicated around the house. He would come home, and rather than search every room (he had a rather large house), her uncle would whistle. Leora would return with another line of music, and based on the approximate volume in relation to distance, he would use the noise to determine where in the house she was. Just another quirky feature that came from living with her uncle.

One she was extremely grateful for tonight.

**-XXX-**

**I'm very much ignore the "coming-back-to-life-w/o-eyes" bit, and several other things. But we'll just assume since he got 'em once, they're keepers? Eh? **


	9. Chapter 9

**So...I've gotten absolutely no feedback over the last two or three chapters...anybody out there? I'd love some input, or critiques. Please. **

**-XXX-**

Closing her eyes and drawing focus, Leora blew out a hurried reply to her uncle's query. Once, twice, over again until she could hear that he was getting closer.

All the while, Horace's mummy stared down at her, confused. That was, until he heard the shuffle of the Egyptologist's boots in the hall. He quickly made the connection. Someone was coming.

Turning back to the girl huddling on the floor, he seized her wrists, dragging her up. "I'll find you," he swore quietly. "And I shan't be in this form again."

With that, he released her and slipped away. Her electric lamp's beam frantically sought him, but the room was bare. Empty. She hadn't the faintest idea where he might've gone, either.

Horace stumbled in several seconds later, bleary-eyed and dressed in his mint-striped pajamas. Leora rushed to him, hitting his chest hard, sinking into his embrace with a tender sob. He couldn't get a word out of her on their walk back. She could only cry, clinging to him as they stumbled together through the sand. When they reached the tent, and she'd had two cups of water (and a small shot of the sherry he kept in a flask in his velvet bathrobe, but that was when Madam's back was turned), the young lady managed some short tale of needing fresh air, walking to the ruins, going into the mummy's room, and being frightened by a combination of several factors (a few unfamiliar noises, the mummy's face, etc). In her fright, she left the room, then heard glass breaking. Tomb robbers, she told them, shaking slightly. Someone there, who shouldn'tve been.

She spoke nothing of the mummy coming to life, the startling one-sided conversation, nor of the papyrus.

She received no scolding from him. He was too focused on safety-that of hers, and his mummy's. Leora in no way blamed him

Once Horace left to examine his pride and joy, Madam began to do what she did best: fuss.

Tea was given, along with an extra blanket, some sweets, and then Leora was sent off to her cot with the strictest instructions to sleep. "Running about the desert," Madam sniffed as she spooned out French-formula sleeping aid (Leora was wary about it, but said nothing as she was not in a state to be testing the governess's nerves) "In the middle of the night. Not something Proper Young Ladies ought to be doing."

For once, Leora agreed.

She fell into an uneasy sleep, dreaming of mice and gold-skinned men.

**-XXX-**

The next morn, as she and Madam dined on their usual breakfast of strawberries and toast, Horace visited their tent. Hat in his hands, and followed by two of his men, he stood somberly in the crisp morning light. Leora had to shield her eyes from the sun, which was magnified by the white desert sand. It took her a moment to grasp the gravity of her uncle's expression.

"This morning," he began, voice quavering. "We found Malik and Rashin in their tents…dead."

He said it so simply. No preamble, as was usually the case when it came to Horace. Madam stood abruptly, her eyes the size of saucers.

"The thieves?" she asked in a hushed tone.

Transfixed, Leora held her toast aloft, halfway between her mouth and the plate. She was caught in a daze. Listening partially, but also thinking very hard on last night's events. She had hoped it had merely been a dream. Then Madam mentioned something about electric lamps. And she had remembered.

Had she gotten someone killed?

Horace hesitated, looking to his niece. She appeared adequately shocked, so he gestured for the governess to follow him outside. Once there, he spoke quietly.

"Some…virus, or pathogen of some sort we're entirely unfamiliar with. It's as though every drop of moisture in their bodies has been removed…so curious. They didn't appear injured in any other form. But I've had the bodies packed up, and all of their things sanitized. The tents, cots, and linens have been burned." Horace swallowed. "I don't know what this means. They looked like…well, they looked like _mummies.__**" **_

Madam stared. "You're joking, Horace."

"No, no, I swear it. Perfectly preserved, dry to the bone. I don't know what to think of it! And if it is a disease…but it's unlikely. They've been properly packed." He adopted a business-like tone. "We shan't fear it. Probably nothing more than…er…severe dehydration, paired with….with…I haven't the faintest idea. But this could still be connected to the thieves. We'll need everyone to stay close."

The governess nodded slowly, though she looked positively horrified. "Very well, then. We shall…we shall stay indoors, for today."

"Right." The Egyptologist clapped his hands. "Exactly. Carry on, then, Madam."

Leora had, naturally, heard every word.

_"Pathogen?" _ Her mind flashed back to the mummy's words before he left her.

_"I shall find you…and I shan't be in this form again."_

What did that mean, exactly? How was he going to set about changing himself? How does one recover from a resurrection?-for that is what occurred, she was fairly certain of it. She shook her head. Too many questions, and no way of answering them.

When her uncle and governess returned, Leora made an inquiry (with just the right amount of faint sorrow) after her uncle's mummy. Perhaps, in some way, he might've gone back to his sarcophagus. Rather like a vampire, but possible.

Horace's expression turned graver. "My dear, my specimen has left us. Those fiends you encountered last night have taken him from me. But no fear, my girl, no fear. We've put men on it. There is no reason to believe they've left, either. Still camping in the city, you see. We'll find him."

She was not reassured.

Not only had two men been killed, but now goodness-knows how many were out there searching for the supernatural corpse. Besides that, they were under the impression that they were looking for bandits, not some mummy with untold powers.

**-XXX-**

Over the next three days, two other men died equally mysterious deaths.

For the remainder of the week, she and Madam stayed in their tent. They were not allowed to watch any digs, couldn't take a single walk, nor could they dine with the gentlemen. This was disappointing. Leora turned to the books she'd brought, flipping through several covers, browsing the pages carelessly. Sleep was always an option, but ever when exhausted, she found the practice difficult. She was restless. Uneasy. Between tiredness and boredom, Leora was at a loss. She soon developed cabin fever.

She could not sit around as others were in danger. Not when she had some part in their injury. Normally meek and mild, Leora felt a fire in her blood unmatched by any of her previous passions of reading or painting. Not quite anger, but, rather, an attraction to making right. She needed to solve this. Solve it before anyone else was hurt.

Or she might never be able to forgive herself.

Exactly one week after her encounter, Leora found her out. Some of Madam's sleep aid, slipped into her evening cup of tea might very well be her ticket out of their stuffy little tent. It sat on DuBois's vanity, beside her powder poof, in its red little bottle. A few drops, and the Rainier would be free for the evening.

Dinner was a quiet affair that night. Exactly as it had been all week. Madam read aloud afterwards. Leora crochet for an hour or so, until her hands were stiff. Then she set aside her work for bed.

It did not take much to convince the governess of her own weariness, or that her charge intended on staying in. Leora had fueled the idea of her own extreme fear of the "thieves," and had easily persuaded the woman of her charge's aversion to leaving without supervision. It took even less persuasion to convince the woman to have a nightcap of chamomile tea. The governess faded to sleep almost as soon as she drained her teacup. As soon as Leora could hear the measured breaths of the sleeping person across the room, she slipped from bed, pulling on a pair of trousers and buttoning a blouse. She wore a light jacket- - - desert nights were considerably chilly-and, in lieu of her oxfords, the proper boots Horace had gifted her with on announcing his expedition, the very same one they were on now.

The electric lantern went into her pocket once more. With little hesitation she left, looking back only once to ensure Madam was asleep.

She believed he might still be in the ruins. He'd promised to find her-well, she was not going to give him the chance. Not by a long shot. No, Leora was determined to find him and put an end to this-if only she could figure the "how" part of the equation.

Over the course of the week, she'd had quite a bit of time for thinking, and had figured she'd simply end him the way he'd began; through the scrolls.

They might still be in the vestibule, where she'd dropped them. Horace had said nothing about them when he visited her over the week. Perhaps he'd missed them.

Whatever caused her to fluently read the spell (for it must be a spell) that woke the mummy might be what could take him back down. If she was lucky it would work. If not, well…Leora didn't have any sort of back-up plan. Close her eyes and hope he didn't put an end to her. It seemed as though he had some sort of connection to her. Hopefully that would prevent doom falling upon her. Hopefully.

The moon was nearly full, so she had more than enough light. In the brightness, the sand almost appeared snowy white. Leora hadn't seen snow since she left England, ages and ages ago. For a while, she could pretend the sand was snow, that she was out on a quiet winter stroll, not hunting down murdering mummies. Of course, this dreaming couldn't last once she'd entered the temple.

It took her less time to find the temple house on her third visit; she had a mission. No sounds greeted her this time. She felt reasonably reassured of being alone. Wherever her uncle's mummy was tonight, it was not here. Silent, she drifted through the hall, the temple house, and into the windowless side-room that housed the sarcophagus. With light streaming in from the open temple house, she didn't need to turn on her electric right away.

The glass had been cleared away, as had the pot and the oil lamp. She still had to wonder who'd left the flower and the lamp. Where they the same person who had left behind the scrolls? Was someone scheming here, on the mummy's side?

Switching on the electric light, Leora used the light to scan the floor of the room, then all the corners. She got down on her hands and knees to thoroughly view the room, then peered into the empty coffin. Several minutes of searching confirmed her fears; nothing was to be found. She'd reached her first wall. Now, only to climb it.

She stood up from where she'd kneeled beside the coffin, taking one long breath and backing up. A flick of the switch, and the room was engulfed by darkness. Leora frowned. Hadn't it been light, earlier? Had a cloud temporarily covered the moon? She groaned internally, fumbling for the light again, when the dark shifted. It altered, becoming far smaller, a concentrated patch of dark. A shadow. That's when she turned, without really considering-

The doorway seemed tiny in comparison to his large frame. He consumed her vision, and though silent, radiated intimidation. Leora squeaked, hurrying to back up. Somehow, he always found the perfect place to corner her.

He was different. Yet she knew, without a doubt, who it was. It could be no one else. Even in the relative darkness, she could make out smooth skin, keen eyes, a fuller figure. _"I'll find you…and I shan't be in this form again." _Entirely had transformed completely. If she weren't so frightened she might have gone so far as to call him handsome. But she was scared out of her stocking, so no compliments were forthcoming. At least, not from her.

The mummy (though she couldn't rightly call him that anymore) descended upon her. Leora cried out again, scrambling away until the back of her knees hit the sarcophagus with a dull thud. It hurt, but she ignored the pain, too focused on _staying away._ But this time, he knew better, and kneeled to her level. Her wrists were soon shackled by his massive hands, her knees locked between his. And, once again, she was forced to look upwards. This time a far nicer visage presented itself to her. One with skin, smooth and tan, eyes as dark brown as hers were green, strong, dry hands. This did nothing to consol her, however, and though unhurt, Leora began to weep.

The sight of her tears had an effect on him. Cool fingers swept her cheeks, brushing away the salty drops. This only made her cry harder. A smooth murmur of unintelligible words did manage to ease the crying somewhat, as did the soft strokes being applied to her hair. Rainier still shied away from his touch, but less so upon seeing this gentler side. When she stopped shaking, the man pulled back to observe her with thoughtful eyes.

"Masika," he whispered.

There it was again. That word.

She straightened. "What is that?" She didn't expect any response, but voicing the question seemed to help.

Brow furrowed, he repeated it. A question entered his tone. "Masika?"

Over and over he said it. Each time, a question. He stared, frustration tingeing his tone, as though he were trying to get across some deep message she just wasn't comprehending.

And then it suddenly clicked. It was a name. What he thought to be _her_ name!

"No," Leora said, gesturing to herself. "Leora. I'm Leora. I don't know who Masika is, but, eh…she's probably gone. You said so yourself, three thousand years?"

"No," he said confidently. "You are she. It is inconceivable to think otherwise. You are my wife."

**-XXX-**

**Reviews? Please? Just drop me a "u suck," anything will do. **


	10. Chapter 10

**In the Nile's Emerald Depths ch 10**

**We're nearing the end.**

**-XXX-**

She stared long and hard. The man who had once been a mummy gazed back, holding his ground.

"That's impossible." Leora heard herself say faintly. She was so dazed, speech and motion felt beyond her.

The look he passed her spoke volumes. A mummy, brought back to life by her reading ancient Egyptian text (which she had previously not known how to read), restored to his appearance of three thousand years prior, claiming she was his (probably) long-dead bride. And she claimed the dead wife part was "_impossible?" _Leora winced.

"All of this is impossible," she revised. "I thought I was dreaming, that night, until-"

"Until what?"

"I woke up the next morning," she said simply. "And two men were dead."

He did not recoil. Instead he sat, crossing his legs. Leora averted her gaze-taking in, for the first time, that he was wearing nothing more than a sort of skirt-thing, and some sort of open tunic, the fabric of both being very familiar. She remembered the last mean were found missing a few articles of clothing. A sickening feeling came over her, but she still listened.

"It was what had to be done," he said quietly, trying to level with her eyes. "I said I would not come to you again looking as I did. Scaring you, like that…tore me apart. It was not done out of malice or bloodlust."

"Those men had families-"

He cut her off. "No. They did not. I ensured that I would be limiting the damage. I checked before."

She had been bluffing, hoping to guilt him, but he wasn't about to let her. The mummy continued.

"They were not…not good men," he went on, a little hesitant. It struck her that he'd picked up conversation rather well for one who'd been dead nearly three-thousand years. "I heard them speaking, apart from the others…If anything, I did it so they would not be around you. Such filth ought not be allowed near blatant innocence. They will not be missed."

"Oh," said Leora very, very, very softly, connecting his implications.

"I promise you, no more blood shall be shed in my name. And, I hope, your fear will be soon abated…I wish you no harm. Ever," he assured her, eyes liquid and serious. "And I shall tear down anyone who threatens otherwise."

Leora frowned. It wasn't as though her life was threatened on a daily basis-that simply did not happen. She was nobody. Death threats didn't happen to Leora Rainier. Her mother might have an occasional audience member who took the opera a little too far, and in their offended state, say something rude. Threats of bodily harm had been issued. But Leora hadn't ever been part of these threats.

She told him as much.

Now that he had actual skin and wasn't trying to chase her (though cornering her against his once-coffin was close), conversing was easier. She was by no means relaxed; speaking came without much trouble. The situation was difficult, yet she felt drawn to figuring it out. As their discussion continued she found herself intrigued with his tale. He had been married to this Masika. She was a Greek. They'd had a son-"Nsu," he said with a slight smile-but his wife had died. He'd gotten into some trouble later with one of the Pharaoh's servants (oh, how Uncle Horace would like to pick this brain-the man actually knew Imhotep), and was curse for eternity. Being raised back twice already, he had since shaken off the curse, but had been brought back each time.

"What were you? How did you know the Pharaoh? My uncle thinks you're a priest-"

"He would be right." Humor lit his eyes. "I was the High Priest to Seti. This-" he gestured. "-was my temple."

Leora nodded, thoughtful. "Uncle would be delighted to meet you-provided, of course, he didn't know about the murders-he's a big Egyptologist. People study your time, you see. It's very interesting."

She was getting lost in the thrill of who he was, forgetting the murders, the supernatural factors.

Amused, the man said, "So I've seen. They get excited over the silliest of things, your uncle and his men. Bits of pot, things like that."

"It's all that is left," Leora said sadly. "Three thousand years of history had passed this land by; there are holes."

The High Priest took her wrists again, examining them and tracing the veins. Suddenly, she fell quiet. He was being forward-Madam would've thrown a fit if she'd seen any fellow touching her charge in such a way. Yet, she couldn't bring herself to mind. A blush rose in her cheeks, hidden by the darkness, thank goodness.

"What is your name?" she asked abruptly, hoping to distract him from the awkward caresses.

Funny, that after all the things she'd learned in the last half hour, his name hadn't made the list. She'd not realized till just now that she'd mentally been addressing him as _"the mummy_" still. And that would not do.

"Imhotep." He inclined his head. A slight smile bloomed on his lips. "High Priest to Seti, the son of Ra."

Leora offered her free hand. "Leora Rainier. Of England, and…well, Alexandria, I guess."

"England…Alexandria? I do not know of these places."

She cursed herself, remembering that was after his time. "England is an island far away, very small. And wet, dampish. It rains a lot. But, ah, we're tough. Ruled half the world, at one time or another. Our conquests rival that of-" She almost said Rome, but that was after him too. "-Egypt. And Alexandria is a city of Egypt. It was built by a conqueror, a Macedonian named Alexander the Great. He took parts of the North and East as well."

Imhotep listened patiently. He didn't like not knowing the world beyond. It had moved from around him, as he slept in that tomb.

"What do you do in this life?" he asked her softly. "Once you worked here, with me."

"I…." she thought hard. "I'm a lady. There isn't much doing there. Waiting for life to begin, I suppose."

His hand found her cheek. "Waiting for what sort of life?"

"I don't know. Something. I'd like to work with my uncle. Digging up mummies."

"You found me?" he asked, hopeful.

"No, he did. You're his favourite," she added. "But here, in this time, you just sort of-of get married. Have kids. Have a life, I supposed."

"As we did."

Leora reeled back. "Um…yes. I suppose."

Disappointment flashed in his eyes. "You…are wary."

There was not right answer. Yes, she wasn't sure. She had not the faintest idea of what to do. A three-thousand-year-old man comes back to life claiming her to be his wife? What, precisely, did he expect of her? If it was indeed true, she wasn't going to let go of everything to—to-

Do what?

"I do not know how to react to this." She was honest. "A lot to comprehend, you know? This isn't something one simply picks up, having three-thousand-year-old men come to tell you you're their wife reincarnated. It isn't done, where I come from."

He was unimpressed. "Then what is 'done?'"

Leora considered. "Patience. Lots."

"Then I must further wait for you?" The verdict was not a pleasing one. Unhappy he shifted nearer. "Before we…start again?"

Start over? How about start at all? Had he expected her to leap for joy upon seeing him, recognize their life? That is, if she even believed in his tale at all. Leora bit back a sigh. She wanted to understand, honestly, to make things right between them. That's all she ever wanted-the murders resolved, justice, peace for the camp, safety for everyone. Not some ancient love story and decaying corpse following her about, on a brief killing spree (though, she mused, eying Imhotep, when he was not rotting he was quite attractive, handsome, even). Coming to Egypt in the first place had been no blessing. Then her uncle taking her on this bloody trip to the blasted desert-what kind of joy was that? Yes, the Egyptologist thing was exciting, but she was growing tired of the mummies, and the sand, and the pottery bits littering their campsite. She wanted "normal." That was all Leora Rainier ever asked for out of life. The simple request of ordinary.

And yet….

She was given a passionate High Priest, a curious series of murders, and little else to show for, except perhaps the sand pooled in the bottom of her oxfords, and possibly a few accidental glimpses of shirtless workers as she snuck (unsupervised) around the various worksites of Thebes.

Typical.

"I don't know," she said again. "But…I suppose when the time comes, we'll figure it out."

He was not happy. "And until then?"

Yes, what to do with him? She couldn't very well leave him here, alone in the temple. He was adept enough at surviving, but how much longer would that hold out? And he'd already spent a week evading her uncle and his workers-something had to give. But taking him back to camp wasn't really much of an option either. Yet, it seemed to be their best choice. She had not the slightest clue of how she was going to explain his presence to her uncle. Somehow….

So, she announced the plan-return to camp, and, in the morning, do their best to explain (in other words, lie) to Horace as to how this man, Imhotep, appeared in the midst of the night. Again, the High Priest did not appear enthused, but he said nothing, merely nodded. Leora took this as an indication to go. She began to rise, only to find herself prevented by her companion. Slowly, she lowered herself again.

One hand skirted the skin of her cheek, the other cradled the base of her skull. No advances were made; Imhotep gazed, and nothing more. A long moment passed before she was released.

**-XXX-**

**I'm a little disappointed with the lack of feedback. There are readers, I see the stats. I won't beg for reviews, and I understand-I mean, as much as I'd like to I don't review everything I read. Still, any response would be cool. **


	11. Chapter 11

**In the nile's emerald depths, ch 11**

**-XXX-**

On their way back, they drifted uneasily beside one another. At least, Leora was uneasy. Her partner appeared relaxed, near blissful, stealing glances. Leora's arms were crossed against the chill of the night. Her eyes stared straight ahead, or either on the ground to watch for stones (as she was liable to trip). Imhotep's arms were loose at his sides. She looked at them, occasionally, from the corners of her eyes. They were nice features.

A thought occurred to her just as they were reaching the outskirts of the camp. All was dark, illuminated only by the wealth of moonlight. She stopped, taking a moment to gather her words.

"We can…communicate," she said slowly. "But I speak no Egyptian, and I doubt you speak English. How can that be?"

"I do not know, nor do I particular wish to find out. It may be an effect of the spell. This English, it is from the England you spoke of?"

"Yes, very good," she approved. "What if it is Egyptian? My uncle will suspect-"

"We shall figure it out," soothed the High Priest. "Later. In the morn. But for now, you are tired. You need rest. I am just thankful that we may speak, that there are no further barriers between us."

They had reached the campsite, and walked through the field of oatmeal-coloured canvas toward her tent. She hung back slightly, allowing Imhotep to lead. He did so effortlessly, without notice, or without realizing Leora making note of it. _"He knows where we sleep. Just how much has he been watching?" _The thought should have bothered her bit more than it did, however, she was tired and no longer felt threatened by his presence in her life.

Upon reaching the tentflap, Leora stopped. "Where will you stay?" she asked, eyes concerned.

"Out here." He gestured. "I will stay outside until morning. Then, we will see your uncle."

She shook her head, correcting, "No, first we'll find you some clothes. That skirt-thing won't be appropriate. Then we'll see uncle."

He frowned, but comprehended her meaning. "Very well. In the morning, then. When shall you rise?"

"Five. We eat breakfast at six. But I'll slip out so we can dress you."

When she left, he had stationed himself beside one of the stakes, sitting gracefully and observing the fresh new world around him.

Before she could find sleep Leora mused over his experience thus far. He'd been thrust into a new life, a different world, tormented by the sight of his not-wife, alone, chased by Horace's men, and now made to wait, uncertain of his future. She ought to be little more sympathetic. _"In the morning," s_he promised silently. "_In the morning, we'll start again."_

She wanted to give him a chance. He was, honestly, quite intriguing. Murders aside, he seemed gentle. And, if what he had implied was true, those men were not to be missed.

Sighing into her pillow, Leora embraced sleep. Outside, a guardian awaited her, eyes and ears keen in her sleep, on the watch for any chance of danger. For the first time in seven long days, Leora Rainier found peace.

**-XXX-**

Somehow, she managed to escape Madam before dawn to take the High Priest to the vehicles that served as a base for their storeroom. Wooden crates and boxes piled beneath a few dusty green canvases. Using a discarded crowbar, they pried open five boxes in two of the trucks. Their finds consisted of canned fish, lamp oil, blankets, several containers of ammunition, an entire cargo box of tea. None of these things were helpful in the least, unless Leora could take the time to transform the woolen blankets into a suit set. Finally, after nearly forty-five minutes, she found their small stock of clothes. It took more searching to find something that might fit Imhotep's frame.

A simple cream-coloured workshirt, starched and rough, and a pair of heavy pants in a coffee tone fit him well enough-the pants a little big, the shirt a little tight. She sent him on the hunt for boots to fit while she browsed for belts. It didn't take much longer, and he appeared to be all that a modern man ought. He looked like a worker, which didn't suit his powerful stance. But perhaps, if they played their cards right, they might convince Horace of some nobility in the once-High Priest.

They decided on a very simple story-a young fellow, visiting the Nile, touring the world, gets abducted by some vagabonds (whom he will have also witnessed stealing Horace's mummy, and killing the workers). He will have escaped after nearly a month of capture. Early this morning, while on a walk (_"I was getting restless, Uncle Horace,"_), Leora discovered him, dirty and hungry and lost. He would dressed and brought before the camp's leader.

As for a name, Leora wracked her brain for something clean, British. Swayed by his good looks, she decided on "Clark," after the movie star she'd seen last in England. _"Red Dust," _risqué by her mother's standards. She'd snuck out with friends to see it. They'd all been enamored with Clark Gable.

For the last name, she selected something classic, clean. _Preston-_which, if she remembered correctly, meant something along the lines "priest town."

Clark Preston. Perfect.

Imhotep did not particularly care for his new name, but he agreed to use it for the sake of his admittance into her life. Especially when she told him, blushingly that, "Clark Preston looked quite nice in trousers."

He promptly decided he would wear nothing but if he could make colour rise in her cheeks everytime.

They approached Horace's tent. Madam was already inside, in hysterics over Leora missing. The pair entered quietly, slipping inside. Two of Horace's flunky-like archeologists stood toward the back, looking quite out of place. They stared, silent, at the High Priest and Leora. Madam was hunched over a table, a small glass of port at her elbow. Horace was bent over her, saying words of comfort, positive that his niece was fine, just grand-

"Leora," he said abruptly. "Where the devil have you been?"

Madam lifted her head, tears still streaming down her cheeks.

The young woman in question quite suddenly realized that her hand was being held by Imhoteps. She glanced down, then up. He didn't look at her, having eyes only for Horace.

"I went out for a walk," she began, stuttering slightly. "this morning. Oh, I'm sorry, Uncle Horace, but I was just getting sick in that tent. But I was out, walking along the hills, so-so I could see the ruins, you know. And then I came across this figure, in the sand-"

And so began their tale. By the end, all were quite sympathetic to Clark, who spoke perfectly enunciated English, thankyouverymuch, and was positively an Englishman. Madam clucked in French, patting the back of his hand as he spoke of his kidnapping. Horace insisted on pouring him a stout glass of port, and damnit, finding that boy some bread. One of the flunkies inquired after his origins, asking if he were one of the "Liverpool or Manchester Prestons?" He wisely answered "no" to both.

With that, Clark Preston was accepted as a member of their party. He had no money, nowhere to go, but clearly was of class and belonged in their world. Besides, he was British; of civility and culture, a countryman. They couldn't abandon him. They wouldn'tve, though they had no true choice in the matter. So, he would be kept.

No other decisions would be made, only that he would be given a tent, a set of clothes. Where he would be sent, what he would do, would be determined at a later date. Leora was given charge of him, as though he was some sort of pet. Since she found him, all deemed it fair.

They'd done it. From across the tent, Imhotep caught Leora's eye. A small smile was blooming on her face. She was proud, of him and of their combined efforts. The challenge had been met-now, they only needed to maintain the ruse.

After finishing breakfast, they left Horace's tent. He'd long sent out men to set up another tent, between his and Leora's, for their guest. Inside was a cot, a small table, one of the Persian rugs from Horace's own tent, and all other necessary comforts. Imhotep proclaimed it quite nice indeed.

Leora sat on the bed as he rifled through the clothes set out for him. It seemed like the flunkies had each contributed something, though neither were near his size, they had handkerchiefs and shoes that fit well enough. One or two of the workers had donated undershirts. Horace promised that on their next supply run, someone would take him out for more fitted clothing. She had the impression that he disliked so many layers, in the heat, and would rather were his traditional grab. But, he would get used to it soon enough. She had picked up the practice of wearing pants quite easily. He would do fine.

"Do they approve?" he asked quietly while Leora folded the clothes she'd left on the table. Imhotep sat on the bed. He'd been rather thoughtful since they'd left Horace's tent.

"Of you? Yes, I should think so."

He fell silent again. She finished folding and moved on to the small self that had been delivered only twenty minutes ago. On its top sat a carafe and bowl, beads of sweat already accumulating on the carafe's surface. A shaving kit resided on one of the shelves, as well as several towels. On the bottom there were five or so volumes from her own collection, delivered at her request. They were mostly history texts. Hopefully, something to catch him up on the times. She wondered if he could read them.

"I just…want to stay with you."

She turned, surprised. "You are, for now. Once the expedition is over, I don't know what will happen, if Horace will keep you on. But we can't worry about that yet-it's weeks off."

Unhappy, he tugged at the hems of his sleeves. "I want to stay," he said again. "But I don't know if I can. I don't know this world. And I don't know you."

Leora stared. "But, after all…all this? What do you mean, exactly? Are you….leaving?"

"Perhaps I should. I thought I knew my wife. But I don't know you."

Her heart was in her mouth, pounding painfully. She wasn't upset, rather, confused. He'd just said he was going to stay with her as long as he could. They were making plans-albeit small ones-and _together. _How could this be?

"Oh," she finally said, softly. "I thought-I thought maybe we were going to…right." Tone brusque, she straightened. "Very well then. Tomorrow we'll talk to uncle about getting you transportation to Cario. You can set out….find your fortune."

She didn't dare meet his eyes, but looked to the books, running shaking fingers along the spines. _"Don't let him notice," _she begged the powers that be. It just wouldn't be fair. Then again, none of it was fair.

Still looking at the books, Leora said casually, "You might want to look through these. They'll help you figure out the last couple thousand years."

"Thank you," he replied. She started. He was closer, having crossed the room. Looking back, she saw that he was less than a foot from her, standing.

"Right," she said, eyes flying to the opposite direction, desperate to avoid him. "I should-"

That was when he pulled her up to face him, and kissed her gently. Leora melted against him instantly. One possessive hand wandered up to her waist. Her clumsy fingers found the back of his skull, smooth and dry. For what felt like a millisecond, they stood together like that, but Leora knew it was far longer. The sensation she felt from the ends of her dark hair to the tips of her toes (which were curled in delight at the toes of her boots) was spine-tickling. When they took breath, she pushed closer, claiming his mouth in a much-less gentle kiss.

This wasn't a goodbye kiss. Not by any means.

THE END

**-XXX-**

**Whoa. Uh, I guess this is the end. It seriously snuck up on me. **

**I'm glad to have given this a shot. It's been a lovely journey. I hope you're enjoyed reading as much as I've had writing. Feel free to review (hint, anyone), and browse my other stuffins. Thank you! **


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